


Paralyzed

by nyxphos



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-09-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:15:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 27,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22342426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nyxphos/pseuds/nyxphos
Summary: Grief affects people in different ways. This is the story of two very different people trying to overcome the grief of lost love in two very different ways - including finding out that revenge isn’t always the answer, and that first love doesn’t always mean last love in the process. Completely AU.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/James Potter
Comments: 33
Kudos: 95





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Hey friends! Thank you for starting this new journey with me. This is an AUthat will kind of explain itself as it goes. First chapter is a little short, but I have chapter 2 ready to go and it has a bit more size to it. I am hoping to keep a weekly posting schedule to start, and see where it goes from there. I hope you enjoy this, and as always feel free to come say hi at nyxphosDOTtumblrDOTcom.  
> Nyx - xx

I'm paralyzed

Where are my feelings?

I no longer feel things

I know I should

I'm paralyzed

Where is the real me?

I'm lost and it kills me inside.

**Paralyzed by NF**

.oOo.

Hermione sits on the curb, a cold cloth against the back of her neck held with one hand, the other pinching the bridge of her nose. 

“The last thing I needed was to have to come to work tomorrow with two black eyes,” she tells Harry. Her friend stands over her with his arms crossed over his chest as the mediwitch looks over her ankle.

“A bruise paste will clear it up in no time,” the mediwitch tells her. “I have a bit I’ll leave with you. Now, let’s set that break real quick. Your ankle will be fine, maybe sore for a day or two.” Hermione lowers her hand and winces at the _crack_ when the witch waves an _episkey_ in face, her nose snapping back into place, and she relaxes as quickly. Leaving a small jar of the bruise paste with Hermione, the mediwitch packs up her bag and leaves to check in with one of the other Aurors and, at least Hermione assumes, file a report.

Hermione herself stands, shakily at first, testing her weight on her ankle. 

“Well that was the most fun I’ve had in a long time,” she says to Harry, grinning as she pulls her hair back with a tie she keeps around her wrist. The man doesn’t smile back and instead frowns, shaking his head calmly.

“I’m glad you enjoyed that, because you gave me a right heart attack,” he tells her. “How did you find him?” 

Hermione glances over to where the man she had been fighting not an hour ago is restrained, the silver of the magical cuffs that dampen his magic shining. He glowers in her direction, his dark hair falling into his face. Maybe someone who _hadn’t_ fought a Dark Lord with no nose and red eyes would have found him intimidating, but as it is, that certainly is not Hermione Granger.

“Complete accident,” she admits, shrugging. “I was actually following up a lead on some artifacts that had been showing up at a few shops in Knockturn Alley that may have found their way out of the Lestrange collection, and I literally just happened to bump into him on the street.” She chuckles, but puts a hand on Harry’s arm. “It’s okay, Harry. I’m fine, he’s in custody, there’s nothing wrong that a little bruise paste won’t clear up,” she says, raising the little jar the mediwitch had given her into view.

“Granger!” comes a gruff voice from behind her, and Allary Brockert, Head of the Magical Law Enforcement Squad is limping in their direction with heavy steps, his cane clicking on the cobblestone. “Good catch,” he praises, smirking. “Potter. Better not be trying to poach my best Hit Witch.”

Harry shakes his head, forcing a small smile. “Never, Brockert. Hermione is far more trouble than we need at the Aurory.”

The older man laughs at that, leaning on his cane. “Well. The last Lestrange, bound and headed for Azkaban. How many left on that list of yours, Granger?”

Hermione’s eyes narrow, her voice dropping slightly. “There’s only ever been one,” she says seriously.

.oOo.

Hermione celebrates come night with a few too many drinks at the Leaky Cauldron which results in a bathroom triste she will vaguely recall the next morning. Hannah Longbottom sends her home long before last call, and when she shows up at the Ministry the next day she has two black eyes, a very slight limp, and a massive hangover. Harry sighs when she shows up at his office door, a sound she is all too familiar with at this point. He has a vial of Pepper Up set out on his desk for her before she even takes the chair across him.

She lifts the vial to him in a silent toast before she downs it, slumping back into her chair. “Are you almost done with this?” he asks, only slightly exasperated. “Because it’s been four years, Hermione, and I don’t really think Ron - ”

“Yeah, well, Ron’s not exactly here now, is he?” she snaps, standing, but she quickly sits back down with a sigh. “I’m sorry, Harry,” she says, and reaches to rub her eye, which only results in a wince.

“I am well aware that Ron isn’t here,” he says, his voice slightly colder than moments before. “You don’t think I miss him every day, as well? But fuck, Hermione. You’re killing yourself trying to find Dolohov, and Ginny might legitimately murder you if I get one more two a.m. floo calls from Hannah getting me to check on you ‘cus she had to kick you out of the Leaky - ”

“Wait,” Hermione says, blanching slightly as she cuts Harry off. “2 a.m. floo calls from Hannah? Are you telling me that bint has been tattling on me like a child - ”

“She’s not _tattling_ on you, Hermione, she’s _worried_ about you! So am I, so is Ginny, and Molly, and the rest of your family!”

Hermione slams a fist down on Harry’s desk, her voice rising. “I don’t _have_ any family, Harry! _He_ took that away from me! There is an entire life I _should_ have had that I don’t get any more because Antonin Dolohov took _everything_ away from me. He nearly killed me when I was 16, he murdered my parents a year later, and then he took Ron four years after that. You get Ginny, and you get James, and Jamie and Teddy, and I get _nothing_ because of that _monster_.”

She was standing now, her fist still planted hard on the desk. She expects Harry to snap back at her, to throw her from his office, but instead he barely moves, and when he speaks his voice is soft.

“Sit down, Hermione,” he sys, and she listens. Mostly because she doesn’t know what else to do.

“If you think you don’t have any family, you haven’t been paying much attention all these years,” he tells her, his voice stern. “You’re like a sister to me. Like a daughter to Molly and Arthur. You’re the woman that Ginny’s brother loved until the day he died. You’ve lost a lot, I’m not saying you haven’t, I would _never_ say you hadn’t. But you do have a family. A family that cares very, _very_ deeply for you, and this path you are following - this road to self destruction - it isn’t just hurting you. It is hurting everyone that loves you, as well.”

He reaches across his desk to where her fist is still planted firmly, taking her hand into his. “Don’t let Dolohov take anything else from you, Hermione. Please. Think about a career change - let someone else carry the burden of hunting the man down. Stop hanging out at the Leaky five nights a week. And please start coming to Sunday dinners at the Burrow again, because fuck, it’s all Molly talks about when you’re not there.”

Hermione chuckles slightly, wiping away the tears that have begun to form around her eyes with her free hand, thinking carefully about Harry’s words.

Maybe he was right. Maybe it _was_ time for a career change.

.oOo.

James Potter sits in his office, twirling his wand between his fingers. He was bored.

Then again, James Potter is _always_ bored. Bored of his job. Bored of his London flat. He was bored of cafeteria lunches and he was bored of his tiny office that he felt like he had been stuck in since 1981. Most of all, James Potter was bored with his _life._

And yet, life went on around him.

His son grew up. Harry had grown into a wonderful young man who had married an amazing woman, who had recently even made James a grandfather. (He refuses to comment on how being a grandfather at 43 was weird and uncomfortable.) His son had grown up and started an amazingly successful career as an Auror, just like his father, and his father’s father. He may have been the youngest seeker in a century, but he had also grown up to be the youngest Head Auror in _history._

And meanwhile James Potter was still in the same office he been in for what seemed like a century.

Of course, when he had first started his career as an Auror, he had been excited. Hopeful. Ambitious, even. He had all of these naive ideas of what his life was going to be like, of all the good he was going to do.

He had of course also thought that Lily would be right there by his side. That they’d be a family, maybe have their own quidditch team of kids and then grow old together.

The young were always naive, he thought, before reality wormed its way into their lives.

A widower and single father at 21, whose parents had been taken the year before by dragon pox. He hadn’t had anyone to guide him, help him, other than his two best friends - not that they were any less naive than he was.

The truth was, he had put on the act of being his old self for the benefit of his friends and his son, but that was all it had been - an act. He had never recovered from Lily’s death; it had left behind the shadow of the man he had once been. At least while Harry was still at home he had a pretense to maintain. 

That was gone now, too. 

Forty-odd years were not long in the life of a wizard, and his forty-odd years had both hardened him, and made him bored with life.

He pauses the twirling his wand, interrupted from his thoughts when he sees the door to his son’s office opening. Hermione Granger exits, pulling the door shut behind her. She looks up as she turns from the door, and their eyes met for a moment. She smiles at him - if he can call it a smile - and gives him a small wave, continuing on her way as he raises a hand back at her.

Shaking his head, he goes back to his twirling. 

He isn’t surprised at the sight of her. Both eyes blackened, a small limp in her step, her hair as unruly as ever. It isn’t unusual to see Hermione Granger come out of his son’s office damaged in some way. A black eye or two, bandaged or casted arm while she waited for Skele-gro to work its magic. A cut lip here, a sprained ankle there. It was the price of being a talented Hit Wizard or Witch, and from what James has heard around the office, Hermione Granger is the best.

Not that he had seen her in action since she had left the Aurory. Even as a teenager she had been an accomplished duelist - entirely due to his son, or so she claimed - and her three years as an Auror had helped grow that talent. From what James had heard, however, the last few years after she had joined the Hit Wizards had honed that skill to a level not many had seen before. Injury was par for the course, but she was the only Hit Witch - or Wizard, for that matter - in his entire Ministry career to have never spent any time in one of those personally reserved beds the department held for them at St Mungo’s.

The trick was, as it turned out, that she was the only person he had ever met that was just as - possibly even more - broken as he was.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello lovelies! A huge thank you to everyone who left kind words on the previous chapter, who subscribed, or who send kudos. Your encouragement is much appreciated! The first chapter was posted on Monday, but going forward I am going to be trying to update once per week on Sundays. And as always, feel free to come say hi at nyxphos [dot] tumblr [dot] com.  
> Without further adieu...

_ “Do you ever think about leaving the Aurory?” Ron asks. They are lying in bed on their sides, facing each other. Hermione’s eyes are half lidded, and she is thoroughly satiated and relaxed. She relishes in the feel of her husband’s fingertips as they trace little patterns on the skin of her shoulder. She frowns, slightly, at the question. _

_ “Why?” she asks, turning so she is lying face down, her head turned just enough so she can see his face. His fingers move to dance down her back, sending tickles down her spine. _

_ “I dunno,” he says, watching her carefully. “Just… I never really thought being an Auror was what you wanted. I think I always imagined you in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, to be honest. You know, fighting for elvish welfare, or werewolf rights or something.” _

_ Hermione chuckles. “Maybe,” she says, sincerely. “In a different world, maybe. Or when all of this is done. But… we just have so much we need to do, still. Death Eaters to catch and corruption to stifle.” They sit in silence for a moment.  _

_ “You’re not a warrior,” Ron says finally, his voice quieter then it was moments before. “You’re passionate, yes. You’re  _ fiery _ , a fighter, definitely. But you’re not a  _ warrior _.” _

_ “And you are?” Hermione asks with a chuckle. She pushes herself onto her elbows and leans over, pressing her lips against his. “I think I’d say I’m fairly pragmatic,” she confesses, “And the pragmatist in me knows there are certain things we need to prioritise above others, but someday I would think I would very much like to be passing laws for the benefit of elvish welfare.” _

_ “I hope it comes to that sooner rather than later,” Ron admits as kisses her jaw, rolling so he is holding himself above her. She laughs as he rubs his stubble against her cheek, trying to roll away from him. _

Hermione wakes slowly, drifting between dreams and the waking world, and then she is staring at the ceiling, feeling a burning in her stomach. She hates waking slowly. Sometimes she wakes forgetting about the last four years, especially if she has been dreaming about Ron, and that moment when she realises is gone - remembers she can’t reach out and feel his slumbering body beside hers - is almost worse than remembering the pain of losing him.

She should get up; get dressed, go to work and distract herself from the suffocating feeling of being alone in the flat that has  _ him _ around every corner. 

But she doesn’t. Instead she curls in on herself, wrapping her arms around her knees as she pulls them into her chest, and closes her eyes, trying to remember the feeling of his fingers dancing down her spine.

.oOo.

The rigorous and strict training schedule of the Hit Squad calls for 2 hours of training each morning, and by eleven Hermione is starving, so she is relieved when Harry shows up at half-eleven to see if she wants to join him at the deli down the street for lunch.

As they sit at a tiny table in front of the window facing the street, sandwiches and soup in front of each of them, Harry asks the question that had obviously been burning into him for weeks.

“So,” he says, taking a bite of his sandwich, “Everyone was excited you came to dinner on Sunday. But have you thought about anything else we talked about that day?”

Hermione hesitates, her spoon halfway to her mouth. “Thought about? Yes.”

Harry raises a brow at her, and she sets her spoon back into the bowl, sighing.

“Me and Ron talked about it once,” she tells him. “Me leaving the Aurory, I mean. He wanted me to do something… something I was passionate about. He suggested DRCMC. I left the Aurory for two reasons; one, because after Ron was gone, it seemed like the thing to do. And second, because I felt that joining the Hit Squad would help me better my skills so that when I come face to face with Dolohov, I can beat the shit out of him. It’s kind of ironic, I guess. Ron wanted me to leave the Aurory because he said I might be a fighter, but I wasn’t a warrior; when he died, I became one.”

Harry reaches across the table, placing his hand over hers. “I know how hard this is for you to talk about, ‘Mione.”

She nods, slowly. “I just don’t think that a quiet little desk job trying to push legislation through bureaucracy for the protection of elves or goblins or what have you is ever going to be in the cards for me. Maybe in another world where Ron is still here with us, but… not here. Not now. And I am well aware that I can’t keep on this path I am on now, but… I also can’t stop until Dolohov is either dead or rotting in Azkaban.”

“Well, you’ve certainly made a name for yourself as a Hit Witch,” Harry admits.

He’s not wrong. The DMLE was a very male-dominated department; but the Hit Squad most of all. She was the only current Hit Witch, and there weren’t too many before her, either. Brockert, the grumpy sod, loved to tell anyone that would listen that she was the best Hit Witch or Wizard he had ever trained; and compliments were not a common occurance from the wizard.

But Hermione shrugs in response. 

“Do you still dream about it?” Harry asks, and Hermione takes note of the way he refuses to say “nightmares”. She shakes her head.

“Not about that, no,” she tells him. About other things, yes. She still still dreamed about the night that Bellatrix Lestrange tortured her; waking up with the scar on her arm burning like it hadn’t happened eight years previously. She dreamed, like she had the previous night, about Ron - but never the night he died. Her mind chose to instead torture her by making her wake forgetting that he was gone.

She doesn’t tell any of this to Harry.

“I don’t know what I will do after,” is all she says, moving the conversation back to her career. “It’s just a matter of time. Yes, some of the Death Eaters, Dolohov included, have managed to evade arrest for quite some time now. But those numbers are dwindling. They aren’t organised or active in any capacity; they are cowering in the shadows like cockroaches, waiting to be exterminated.”

She pulls her bag onto her lap; it’s the same small beaded bag she had taken on the run all those years ago, and is still jam-packed with anything and everything she could possibly need if suddenly forced to run. Between the war, Auror training, and joining the Hit Squad, her preparedness was something that became a second nature. Maybe it was paranoia - maybe even a touch of PTSD. 

Maybe it was yet another thing she just couldn’t let go.

From her bag, she pulls a file that she slides across the table, It’s thick, the papers inside so neatly piled on each other and organised. As Harry opens it, Hermione keeps talking.

“This is everything I’ve spent the last four years gathering. Antonin Alexei Dolohov immigrated here with his parents at the age of two. Yana Katerina Dolohov was a notably talented potioneer and she and Alexei Ilya Dolohov ran a successful apothecary in - of all places - Godric Hollow until Alexei’s death in 1989. Using immigration records, I was able to discern that they entered the UK under assumed names. Thanks to a contact in the Russian Ministry I was able to connect them to the disappearance of a family that left Russia under suspicion of connection with organised crime. I believe that Yana and Alexei Dolohov were originally Katya and Alexei Chernov. Alexei Chernov had one sister; Anna Chernov, who still resides in Russia.”

She stops, allowing Harry to look over the information she has put forward, before reaching into her bag again. She pulls out a second file, this one just thick and just as tidy as the one before. 

“This folder is the result of multiple contacts in many governments across the continent. Starting with one of our investigations, here in the UK. I think you’ll remember this one.” She pulls a small stack of clipped papers from the rest in the file, handing it to Harry.

“Eustacia Carrigan,” Harry says, “I do remember. She was nineteen at the time of her death. Cause of death was determined to be an unidentified dark curse.”

Hermione nods. “It was akin to being electrocuted from the inside out, correct? Unidentified, yes, but not unseen.” She pulls a second tidy bundle of papers from the pile.

“Raphaelle Dubois, aged 21, found in Dunkirk, France. Cause of death; unidentified dark curse, but similar physical markers as the curse that killed Eustacia Carrigan.” She passes him another packet. “Yvonne Bergen, 22; Achen, Germany.” Another. “Irina Borov, 20; Dresden, Germany. I have nine international files here that match this MO; all young adult females, all either muggleborn or halfblood witches married to muggleborns. He has left a trail through continental Europe, leading into Russia.”

Harry fingers through the rest of the files, running a hand through his hair. “I would agree with the assessment that all of these murders were carried about by the same person - but how can you be sure it is Dolohov?”

“This is why I am speaking to you and making this request as a friend, outside of the office.” She reaches across the table and pulls the last packet from the back of the file, setting it on top. “Annika Petrov, 24; Saint Petersburg, Russia. She was the only victim I have found that managed to survive the first round of torture. Note the scarring. I know it is Dolohov because it is the same curse that nearly killed me during our fight in the Department of Mysteries. I suspect something cooked up by the bastard himself.” 

Subconsciously, Harry’s gaze drifts to her sternum, where he knows an angry scar cuts across. “Hermione - this is all extremely compelling, fantastic investigative work, but you’re not an Auror anymore - ”

“As I said,” she cuts him off, “This is why I am speaking to you as a  _ friend _ , not a colleague, outside of the Ministry. I believe that Dolohov is purposely leaving a trail leading back to Russia, possibly to his aunt. And I believe that an Auror should investigate that further. I also believe that Antonin Dolohov is an extremely,  _ extremely _ dangerous dark wizard, and that the best course of action would be to place a request with Allary Brockert to release a Hit Witch to attend with the assigned Auror.”

Harry thumbs through a few more of the files, glancing at Hermione every once in a while, before sighing. “And seeing as there is only one witch on the Squad, you want it to be you?” he asks, though it’s not really a question. He sits still for another moment before leaning back in his chair, gauging her. “I need to think on this,” he tells her, closing the files and moving them from the table to his lap.

“Harry… this man is the reason why I do what I do. This man is the goal,” she says, and Harry recognises the fire in her words.

“I am aware,” he tells her, “But I can’t help but worry that catching him will be your undoing,” he admits. “I’ve watched you for years go from being in a haze to being obsessed with finding Dolohov. Yes, it will bring  _ some _ closure for us all to have the man in custody, but I don’t think it will bring you the answers you are looking for.”

“Don’t make me beg, Harry,” Hermione says, leaning towards him.

“Just… Let me go through all this and think on it for a couple days,” he tells her, and she relaxes back into her chair.

.oOo.

It’s about half eleven when James Potter wanders into the Three Broomsticks. The pub is slow even for a Thursday night. There is a couple occupying a table by the front window; a group of three in the corner towards the back, laughing loudly; and there is a woman sitting on a barstool right at the bar. James approaches the bar giving Rosmerta a little wave; she pours a generous glass of firewhiskey and sets it down in front of him without a word.

He doesn’t mind how quiet it is; prefers it, in fact. Sitting at a bar drinking alone seems far less sad than sitting at home drinking alone, for some reason, but the fewer people there are to see it, the better. He stands there leaning against the bar, his drink in one hand, and is surprised by the voice he recognises beside him.

“James Potter out after eleven on a weeknight? What would your boss have to say about that?”

James freezes, turning his head to the witch to his left, and mutters a curse under his breath. “Hermione,” he greets, however forcefully. “Don’t see you around here too often.” So much for sitting alone at the bar for a drink. He’s kicking himself mentally for not recognising the witch right away; it's not as if she doesn’t have a distinctive silhouette.

“No,” she agrees, kicking back the last of her drink before setting it on the bar and tapping the glass, signalling Rosmerta to top the drink up. If she saw the wordless exchange between Rosmerta and James, she didn’t comment on it. “I usually patron the Leaky - I recently, however, learned that Hannah Longbottom has been flooing Harry and Ginny whenever I leave to check up on me, so I’m avoiding my usual haunt.”

James chuckles. “That’s why one attends a business where they can develop a professional rapport with the barkeep, not one that’s ran by friends,” he tells her, and raises his glass to Rosmerta. “Right, Rosie?”

Rosmerta rolls her eyes at him, though it is clearly good-natured, before turning back to polishing the glasses she had been working on.

“No Sirius tonight?” Hermione asks, changing the subject and drawing in James’s attention again. He shakes his head.

“I think he took off to Greece with the flavour of the week,” he tells her, only moderately sour about Sirius’s successful love life. “Maybe Hannah is worried about you.”

Hermione blinks at him blankly for a moment, registering the conversation had turned back around, then; “Probably,” she agrees, turning back to her drink. “But if I want to drown the numbness in a different kind of numbness, is it anyone’s business but my own?”

James felt a pang in his chest at that. Fuck if of all the people in the world to understand how he felt, it was his son’s best friend. He’s tempted to agree aloud with her, but he quickly realises he doesn’t need to, because she says in a small, quiet voice, “At least you had Harry,” and he agrees with that instead.

“At least I had Harry.” Silence passes between them for a moment, and they can hear the patrons from the table at the back laughing, and then James admits in a voice just as small and quiet as hers, “Though I still wish it had been Lily. She wouldn’t have struggled the way I did, raising Harry alone. She’d probably be remarried by now, to some nice bloke that would have been fantastic with Harry. But instead it was me, and twenty-odd years later I’m still drinking alone in a pub, miserable sod that I am.” He raises a hand to Rosmerta, two fingers up, and she fills both of their glasses.

Hermione narrows her eyes at James. “You did the best you could, same as Lily would have,” she tells him. “You don’t talk about her very often.”

James shrugs. “Still too hard,” he admits. 

“What was she like?”

James frowns, looking over at Hermione. She has her arms crossed, out on the bar, and is resting her head across them, watching him carefully. She’s like stone; cold and hard and unreadable, as she always is these days. “I probably romanticise her more than is healthy,” he says, and she shrugs.

“Me too.” He takes her words to mean Ron, but something has him wondering if she doesn’t mean something else. He continues regardless.

“Brilliant,” he says simply to start. “She was bloody brilliant, in every sense of the word. She was firey and fierce, and protected those she cared about with a ruthlessness that could be downright terrifying. She made me want to be the best version of myself, just to be worthy to have her in my life, and I loved her from the moment I saw her.” He’s smiling, and he looks over at Hermione as he realises for the first time, it doesn’t hurt to talk about her. “Loving her was like… loving the sun itself.”

“Icarus flew too close to the sun,” Hermione says softly. James nods in agreement.

“I don’t know much about muggle science… but Lily told me once that almost all of the stars we see in the sky are long since dead. It’s just that they are so far away that it takes so long for the light to reach us.”

“Some have died thousands, some millions of years ago,” she agrees.

“That’s what it feels like now. Like I’m trapped in the dying light of a dead star.”

“You can be awfully poetic,” Hermione tells him, emotionless, and he narrows his eyes at her for a moment before she says, “That’s not an insult.” She finishes off her glass and moves to stand, swaying slightly and balancing herself against the bar.

“Well, maybe it’s time to head home,” she says with a chuckle, and James sighs, glancing at his watch. Ten past twelve.

“Come on then,” he says, tipping the last of his own drink passed his lips, and reaches out to take her arm. “You can’t apparate in this state, you’ll bloody splinch yourself. We’ll take the floo and make sure you get home alright.”

“Ooooh I don’t think so,” she says, trying to pull her arm free of him. “The last fucking thing I need is you telling Harry you had to cart me home on a Thursday.”

James laughs, and it’s a genuine sound that Hermione isn’t sure she has heard from him too often before. “You’re not a child, love. I’m not going to run and tell on you, you’re more than capable of making decisions for yourself. I just won’t be responsible for letting you walk out that door because it will be me getting called to St Mungo’s in a few hours ‘cus Harry’s in a tizz that you lost a finger - or something worse.”

She considers this for a moment, with narrow and studious eyes honed in on him, until she slowly relaxes. “Fine,” she says, balancing herself against him, now, as he leads her to the public fireplace by the loo. 

Hermione’s townhouse, the same one she and Ron had purchased together for their first anniversary, remained unchanged from the last time James had seen it, which had been not long before Ron’s death. When Ron had still been around, the two would often entertain, and though James wasn’t necessarily a regular to their little get-togethers, he was far from a stranger to them either.

The sitting room her entry fireplace is in has every wall lined with bookshelves, filled to the brim, and an overflow of books are stacked on the desk that hides in the corner of the room, a large black quill and fresh parchment laying out, as though waiting to be used.

“Can you make it to your room?” he asks, letting her brave the stairs alone, “And I’ll get you a glass of water?”

Hermione hums, a sound he takes as agreement, and he leaves her for the kitchen. The kitchen is the same as he remembers, and he finds the cupboard she keeps her glasses in on the first try. 

By the time he makes it up the stairs, Hermione has already changed into an old Gryffindor Quidditch shirt - one that is well worn and patched in a few places, and that clearly had belonged to Ron - and a pair of shorts that are, thank Merlin (because he may be a grieving widower still, but he wasn’t dead either), an appropriate length that don’t make James blush as he goes to put the glass on her nightstand.

Hermione is already face down, over the covers, and when James asks, “You good, then?” he gets a grunt in response that he nods his head to. He turns to leave, but as he does, the closet door catches his eye.

The closet is wide open, and inside, James realises, it is stuffed with men’s clothing.

Ron’s clothing.

Four years, and she still hasn’t managed to clear his items out of her closet. 

It makes James grimace, but he quickly looks away and moves to take his leave. He shouldn’t judge - if any of Lily’s stuff had been salvageable from Godric’s Hollow, he’d probably still have it to this day. He supposes he just doesn’t wish for her to spend the rest of her life missing Ron the way he has Lily. 

But again, who is he to judge?


	3. III

**TRIGGER WARNING:**

**The end of this chapter contains violence, including kidnapping and torture.**

Sunday comes around far sooner than Hermione had hoped it would. It’s a beautiful day, with the sun still high in the sky when Hermione arrives at the Burrow, much to Molly’s excitement. 

“Oh! Hermione, I’m so glad you came again this week! We’ve all been missing you,” the matriarch tells Hermione as she pulls her into a tight hug. “Good thing, too - you’re far too skinny these days, my dear. A few good meals will do you some good. Now, go on outside - Harry, James, and Sirius are trying to help the other boys clear the garden gnomes, but between me and you, I think the gnomes are clearing them out.”

Hermione forces a smile at her (former? - Four years later and she still wasn’t sure how to refer to her) mother-in-law as Molly gives her a pat on the back towards the door. 

She hears the commotion before she sees it; she can make out Harry’s yells, Sirius’s curses, and Charlie Weasely very clearly, “The blighter bit me!”

As she comes around the bend and the garden comes into sight, she hears Sirius; “Sod it. I’m done. There’s a reason I live in the city and don’t keep a garden. This is a Weasley problem, not a Sirius problem!”

He storms out of the garden, in Hermione’s direction, and his sour tone is immediately replaced with something more jovial.

“‘Mione! Well, this is a surprise! Two weeks in a row? I wasn’t expecting to see you for Sunday dinner for at least another twelve months!” he says, throwing his arm across her shoulders, and she gives him the same forced smile she had given Molly. “C’mon, the boys are fighting with gnomes - we can make bets on who gets the most bites.”

“Where’s Gin?” she asks, more conversationally than anything, as she can see only Harry, Charlie, James, and George by the garden. Harry and Charlie appear to be doing most of the work, with James and George whispering, conspiratorially off to the side. 

“Jamie needed a nap so she went to lay down with him,” Sirius says, pulling her in the direction of James and the twins, “And Teddy spent the night with Andi, she’ll drop him before supper.”

As they approach the garden, drawing the attention of the others, it becomes clear that Hermione’s arrival has triggered the end of their attempt of gnome clearing - most likely because her arrival is as good as any other excuse to abandon the task. 

“Glad you made it again,” Harry tells her, and Sirius relinquishes her from under his arm so Harry can pull her into a tight hug. She doesn’t respond verbally, opting instead for a silent, tight lipped nod as she embraces him back. 

The gardens are filled with the ghost of Ron.

Charlie cursing at the garden gnomes brings her to her first visit to the Burrow. The open field on the other side of the garden brings her back to one of the many friendly - more or less - quidditch matches the Weasley clan and their friends would play from time to time; Ron throwing her a proud and lopsided grin every time he stopped a goal from being scored. She downright refused to go to the other side of the house, where the reception was held after their wedding, but she imagined if she did find her way there she would see the two of them, dancing and laughing and very much in love.

Just the thought bore its way into her and stole her breath like a curse.

The group slowly grows as time passes; first Ginny and Jamie, the latter of which gurgles happily as he is passed through the group; then Bill and Fleur, Percy and Arthur; and finally, Andromeda Tonks arrives with Teddy.

“I can’t stay,” she says apologetically, “This was the only evening I could meet Narcissa for dinner.”

“How’s that going, by the way?” Harry asks, kneeling down to pull Teddy into a tight hug. Andromeda shrugs.

“She’s difficult, I won’t lie. But she is trying. With the rest of the Blacks all dead and gone - yes, yes, I am well aware you’re still here Sirius, you know the ones I am actually referring to - we only have each other now. After all we have all been through, I think we can all agree that continuing to carry grudges is none too good for anyone’s health. Family is family.” Hermione isn’t sure if it’s a coincidence that Andromeda’s eyes happen to fall on her when the older witch says this, or if it is pointed, but she shrinks into herself a bit regardless.

Andromeda turns back to her grandson. “I’ll see you next weekend, my little love,” she says, with a kiss to his cheek. 

Hermione can remember when it was decided that Harry would take custody of his godson. It had been a bit of a tumultuous time; Harry anxious and rattled (“I’m so entirely, completely, exponentially unprepared for this,” he had told her); Andromeda sure and set in her convictions (“There is a reason that Remus and Nymphadora asked you to be his godfather, Harry. I know they didn’t expect any of this to happen... But after losing my husband, my daughter, and my son-in-law, I am not in an emotional position to be able to give this child what he needs. I can love him, and I will always be here to support you but… I need to mourn,”); and of course Ginny, utterly frantic and simply terrified (“I’ve been married six months and I’m going to be a - a - surrogate mother to a  _ three year-old _ ?”)

This had resulted in the most questionable period of Harry and Ginny’s relationship; but each member of their extended family had pulled together to help the two realise that they were not alone. 

As Andromeda said. Family is family. 

Personally, Hermione had thought (still thinks, actually) Andromeda’s decision had shown a particular kind of strength - to know when you weren’t strong enough or ready for something was its own kind of courage. 

“It was good to see you, Andromeda,” Hermione says as the older witch takes her leave with one last knowing look towards Hermione. 

It was an unfortunate reality of war - too many people understand Hermione’s emotional state. 

.oOo.

Supper with the Weasleys is, as always, a loud affair. Hermione is still not sure if it isn’t all a bit much for her, but once she had heard someone say “fake it ‘til you make it”, so for tonight, that is her mantra. 

The food is hearty, and by the time she is done eating Hermione is sure she won’t be eating until her next Molly-prepared meal. The chatter and laughter is near-deafening somehow, and by the time they are done eating Hermione is already beginning to eye the fireplace in the parlour, which tauntingly sits directly in her line of vision. 

She’s always managed to keep certain… indulgences contained to  _ not _ Sundays, but she’s not sure she will be as lucky this week.

“Planning on running off so soon?” James asks to her left, and she is only momentarily startled. They have been side by side for an hour, and the first words he has spoken to her are low.

“Oh, you know how it is,” she says, turning her gaze from the fireplace, “Important places to be, and all that.” James chuckles, and she suspects he knows exactly what she is really considering spending her evening doing.

“I meant to… Thank you,” she says after a moment, her voice now low as well. “You know, for Thursday. For… uh - ”

“For not telling Harry, you mean,” he interjects, and she nods. 

“For getting me home safely,” she adds.

“I told you my stance on it. And who am I to judge? Did you think I was there by myself to flirt with Rosmerta all night?”

Hermione shakes her head. “No, I should think not. I think that’s Sirius’s play, isn’t it?” and James nods solemnly. 

“Sirius does particularly like riling that one up,” he agrees. “Anyway. It’s good to see you making an attempt to be out and about again.”

Hermione shrugs. “Well, you can thank Harry for that, again. He kind of… yelled at me,” she admits, frowning. “Or I kind of yelled at him and he just sat there taking it until there was an opening for him to make some valid points. I can’t quite remember, it’s all a bit of a blur.”

They both glance down the table to where Harry is; his wife beside him, their child in her arms, his godson on the other side. He looked  _ happy _ ; something Hermione had forgotten what it was to feel a long time ago.

“Harry  _ cares _ . It’s what he does. Even when you don’t want him to. It’s bloody aggravating, but I suppose it means I did something right,” he tells her, his eyes still on his son. “He’s a good kid - a great  _ man _ ,” he corrects, the corners of his lips twitching.

“If anyone deserves happiness, it’s him,” Hermione agrees.

“His mother was the same way, so maybe I can’t take all the credit. Even when Petunia was at her worst, and treated Lily like… I can’t even describe the things that horrid woman did, Lily always defended her, always cared about her.” 

James balls up the hand that is sitting onto the table into a tight fist, his knuckles whitening from the grip, and Hermione bites back the urge to put her hand over his.  _ You aren’t alone _ she merely thinks instead, and they sit in silence a moment more.

“You know,” James says finally, turning his eyes back to hers, “I feel like whenever we talk it’s always about me - well, Harry or Lily. Sometime I think I’d like to talk about you,” he tells her.

“I - I ca-” she stutters, her eyes wide, then suddenly stands, raising her voice. “Terribly sorry,” she announces, but her eyes meet James’s, “But I’ve just got a bit of a headache and think it’s time to turn in for the night.”

If James wants to stop her, he doesn’t say as much, and she doesn’t look back at him as she makes for the floo.

She arrives home to silence, a deafening sound that pounds in her ears like the drums of an ancient song. She stands in the sitting room for a few moments, eyeing the glass cabinet in the corner that houses an extremely narrow selection of alcohols, and mentally talks herself down. 

_ If you start drinking on a Sunday you know you’ve got a problem,  _ she tells herself, and she is sure it’s a word of advice she’s been given before but she can’t quite remember whom from.

She leaves the room, deciding instead it is time to turn in for the night; trouble can’t find her if she’s asleep, after all.

.oOo.

Whilst Sirius Black had taken to the end of the war - and acquisition of the Black vaults - by happily gracing the pages of Witch Weekly as Britain’s Most Eligible Wizard and filling his nights with a near endless stream of younger, beautiful witches, James Potter had instead purchased a flat that he was too late to realise was far too large for one person. Which in turn became just one more thing to grieve. After living at Grimmauld Place for so many years with his son and best friend, he thought he would be relieved to have the opportunity to drop the masks he wore each day, but instead he found that for the first time in seventeen years, he was left with silence and a calmness that forced him to come face to face with the grief he had been able to, until that point, smother with the bustle of the Order, war, and having a son that attracted mischief and danger like a phoenix to the flame.

In a quest to hide from the silence, he had joined Sirius - just the once - on one of his nights out. He met a lovely, beautiful witch who distracted him for an hour or two; but then again reality came rushing back in and with it a new guilt that made him realise that while some people might find sleeping around cathartic in a way, he was assuredly not one of those people. 

Instead, James Potter went to work five days per week, came home to warm a usually frozen meal, and then the rest of his evenings puttering around the flat trying to find something distracting enough to keep his attention. 

Sometimes he went to the Three Broomsticks for a drink or two, sometimes he found some muggle pub where no one knew him. Sometimes he babysat his grandkids (43 was  _ far _ too young to be a grandfather, he keeps telling himself, mostly to remind himself he is not nearly as old as he may feel from time to time) to let Harry and Ginny have a night to themselves, and sometimes he met Sirius for a drink or a meal (though he makes it a point to never attend parties or galas or even be caught at a pub after nine in the evening with him).

He knew some might call his life sad; but simply, the wizard had baggage.

On this particular Sunday, as he is leaving the Burrow following the usual weekly supper, Harry slips him a sizable stack of papers as discreetly as he can manage (which isn’t extremely discreet; the package is large and cumbersome) and says, “Can you read over this tonight and come see me in the morning?”

James nods silently back, slipping the file under one arm and squeezing his son’s shoulder with the other before slipping through the floo.

Well, at least he has his distraction for the evening.

The file is perfectly organised, detailing a series of connected international murders that make James shift uncomfortably in his office chair. There are nine initial files; each of the girls were tortured and murdered - gruesomely. There are an additional three files at the back of similiar torture cases that could be connected but don’t match the final cause of death, so he focuses on the inital nine. There are even maps slid into the file, showing a trail that blazes across continental Europe into Western Russia. 

The second file is a comprehensive dossier on Antonin Dolohov, ( _ Makes sense _ , James thinks to himself,  _ the thoroughness of the investigation has Hermione’s fingerprints all over it, _ ) and he comes the same hypothesis that Hermione had; Dolohov has led a trail of breadcrumbs leading, in all likelihood, to his paternal aunt’s home in Petrozavodsk, Russia.

He sighs to himself, understanding why Harry gave him this file.

Evidently, Hermione is making a play for the one wizard in the world she would go to the ends of the earth to find, and James suspects he is about to be sent along for the ride.

He thinks back to earlier in the evening; that moment when he had told her they could talk about her sometime, and the sheer panic that had washed over her; the terror in her eyes when she looked back at him. He had understood that fear; no matter how long Lily had been gone, talking about it made it more real than it felt. But it was also cathartic in a way; especially when he was talking to Hermione, someone who - unfortunately - understood. And he really did hope he could help her the same way. He knows Hermione has barely discussed Ron or her feelings on his death even with Harry.

Which is why, Dark Wizard hunting aside and the prospect of very real danger, a trip to Russia with one witch in particular seems like an opportunity.

.oOo.

Antonin Dolohov sits in a less than comfortable armchair in the corner of the room, legs splayed out in front of him, hand to his chin, deep in thought. 

It would be easier to  _ silencio _ the girl in the middle of the room, but then he wouldn’t have been able to hear her grunts and squeals, and where was the fun in that? Instead, he has her mouth taped over, which in tandem with the  _ muffliato _ soundproofing he had done, was enough to keep anyone unwanted from hearing that the abandoned house they currently occupied was, in fact,  _ not  _ abandoned.

He rises from his chair, taking a few steps towards the girl, the click of his boots echoing through the emptiness of the room. As he approaches her, the muffled grunts get louder, more frantic, and he is grinning when he lowers himself down beside her. 

“No one can hear you,” he tells her, his tone almost soothing as he lowers a hand to smooth her red hair around her face. Her green eyes widen momentarily, before she jerks away from his hand, and he laughs.

He presses his wand into her rib, still laughing as she writhes and wriggles across the wood of the floor, fruitlessly trying to pull herself away from him, even as she screams, the sound distorted by the tape over her mouth.

He is still chuckling to himself when he stands and steps back, watching the girl along the line of his wand, tears falling from the corner of her eyes as she silently begs for reprieve, for mercy. He casts the curse, lowering himself back into his chair as it begins to take effect.

The stifled screams don’t last near as long as he would have liked, and when she finally goes silent, blood pouring across the floor from the wound the curse had entered, he sighs.

“Disappointing,” he says to himself, unsatisfied by how quickly the girl succumbs to the curse, and he relaxes into the curve of the chair as the sizzling of the curse escapes from the same wound, a small flow of smoke dissipating into the air.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the week-and-a-day late posting! I took last week off because real life, and then with today being a statutory holiday where I live, I forgot that yesterday was Sunday. My great apologies, please enjoy this chapter! As always, feel free to come say hi on tumblr, where I am also nyxphos.  
> xx Nyx

It doesn’t take Hermione very long to realise one important thing about Russia as she and James arrive at the Ministerstvo in Moscow; she  _ hates _ the place. It is bitterly cold, and as she pulls her black uniform tighter around her neck, she glares at her companion as he casts a stealthy warming charm on his gloves. He gestures his wand at her, offering, but she shakes her head, shoving her hands into the pockets of her black robes.

James is still wearing his Auror uniform as well; a similar military-style robe, form fitting yet flexible with a long stream of gold buttons up the front, though the Aurors are a scarlet red against the Hit Squad’s stealthy black. James smiles at her as he gestures for her to lead the way into the International Portkey Reception lobby, completely ignorant of the argument Hermione and Harry had been in the middle of in regards to him, just the day before.

Hermione had been less than impressed with Harry’s decision to put James on the investigation in Russia. “You’re making an emotional decision, Harry, not a logical one,” she had told her best friend after the meeting between him, her, James, and Brockert. “You’re sending your father to babysit me, not an Auror to apprehend a dangerous criminal.”

Harry had frowned back at her, clearly offended by her outburst. “I am sending the Auror I have deemed best for the job,” he told her.

“If you were sending the best Auror for the job, you would be sending… I dunno - Davies, or - or - Luchek. Someone who’s caseload isn’t half of any other Auror in his Class!” Harry threw Hermione a narrow look that only slightly made her cringe in response.

“Dad  _ is _ an Auror First Class - ”

“I’m not saying he isn’t,” she cut him off, “But I am saying that he was promoted to First Class in 1984 - I fought alongside him in the war same as everyone else, Harry, I am entirely aware of what he is capable of. The issue isn’t his skill or ability, the issue is the fact that he doesn’t seem to  _ give a fuck _ and I need someone who will.”

The words had come out harsher than she had meant, and she regretted it immediately - that guilt causing her to relent and allowing Harry to assign James to the case with not a single argument more.

“I know he is… not applying himself to his job the same way he used to, Hermione - but he was a great Auror, and he could be again if he would apply himself. But he is also the only person in this entire department aside from myself that I would truly trust with your life, and since I can’t exactly flit off to Moscow with you, he is who you are getting. I dunno. Maybe it will be the kick he needs to get a bit more motivated again,” Harry had explained to her later at lunch as they walked back to the Ministry from their little sandwich and coffee shop they frequented. 

Which was how she ended up in freezing-fucking-Moscow, Russia, with her best friend’s father.

“Hermione Granger-Weasley and James Potter?” comes an extremely accented and deep voice somewhere out of her line of vision, and she feels James’s hand on her arm to grab her attention and slow her down.

“Maxim Semenov?” James replies, and the man, who Hermione can now see is a tall, blonde, beast of a man who she wouldn’t be surprised to learn may have been a Beater at some point in his life, smiles in response.

“We are so glad to have you here, although it is too bad it could not be under better circumstances. I am very pleased to meet you, Mrs Granger-Weasley,” and he extends a hand towards her.

Hermione keeps her hands buried in her robe pockets. “Hermione is just fine,” she tells him, and James - likely in an effort to avoid an international incident - shakes the man’s hand in her place, shooting her a look out of the corner of his eye. “I agree that I wish our arrival could have been under better circumstances; I’ve heard such wonderful things about the wizarding community here.”

This seems to placate the man, who doesn’t appear too vexed by what easily could have been mistaken for a slight on Hermione’s part, and he gestures for the pair to follow him. He takes them past the short Customs and Immigration line, through a warded doorway, and just like that they are right in the middle of the hustle and bustle of the Ministerstvo.

Their ministry, from here anyway, appears much larger and grander than back home. Where the British Ministry’s Atrium provides a view for all of the offices that face into it, each floor here has an open but railed walkway that carries all the way around the large atrium, which contributes to the busy feel; seeing every employee as they rush to wherever they need to be. the red and gold filigree ceiling catches Hermione’s eye, the stunning detail just high enough that she can barely make it out if she squints. The atrium is round, and at the centre of the ceiling, a glass skylight allows a natural light to brighten the entire space.

“I know, Russian architecture can certainly be a lot to behold. The ceiling is a bit garish, a bit too imperial if you ask me,” Maxim shrugs. “But you certainly will not find another like it. Right. This way, if you’d please. I’ll show you how to get to our Auror offices, get you a visiting identification, and then I can take you to the hotel to settle in.” He starts to lead them towards the lifts, and they manage to wrangle one that is empty and it is just the three of them.

“Auror offices are on the top floor,” Maxim explains, pressing a button on the lift, and then they are moving.

James reaches for Hermione’s arm as though to steady her in preparation for the sudden jolt of the lift, but as it turns out this is completely unneeded. The lifts are much smoother than at the UK Ministry, and Hermione is thankful for this. Too often she gets to her office feeling ill, motion sickness having taken its toll on her. She instead looks down to where James’s still glove-clad hand has wrapped around her bicep, and then up at the Auror, frowning slightly. He jerks his hand back, muttering a slightly flustered apology, as Maxim continues to speak, oblivious to the exchange behind him.

“If you appreciate the architecture of our Ministerstvo, you will love the hotel I have booked you in for your stay, Mrs Granger-Weasley. It is an historical building far older than even this building, and the owners have put a significant effort in to ensure that the building is kept as respectably close to its original splendor as possible.”

“Please, just call me Hermione,” she interjects again, and Maxim smiles back at her.

“Yes, yes, Hermione, of course.”

There is no jolt as the lift came to a steady stop, and Maxim leads the pair out onto the floor.

From this height, Hermione looks over the railing and watches all the people far below, ants from this distance, and then she looks up to take in the detail around the skylight. 

“Anyway, this building is of course a very historical one as well. It’s construction began in 1722 - at the time St Petersburg had very recently become the imperial capital of Russia, and the decision was made to keep the magical community’s governance as separate from the Muggle governance as possible. Of course, eventually after the Rasputin years and then the muggles’ revolution, Moscow became their capital once again, but the decision was made for us to continue to stay in Russia.” 

Hermione’s attention snaps back to Maxim, and she frowns slightly. “Wait - did you say the  _ Rasputin _ years?” she asks.

Maxim pauses as he turns back to her, a chuckling. “Yes, yes, of course. I take it you are not so familiar with Russian magical history? Well, I would be very happy to discuss this further with you, but perhaps now is not the time to get into such discussions. We will get you taken care of here, checked in and settled at the hotel, and then perhaps over supper we can continue. I made a reservation for the three of us tonight in the hope you both would like to join me, but I didn’t want to impose if you were partial to a quieter night. We do have a big day tomorrow.”

Hermione nods enthusiastically, her interest piqued. “Definitely,” she says, missing the way James’s shoulders sag.

.oOo.

The hotel that Maxim had booked Hermione and James in is only a couple blocks from the guest entrance to the Ministerstvo, and when Maxim suggests they walk so she and James can appreciate the city, what Hermione really wants is to tell the man where to shove it. Instead, she smiles a small forced smile and says, “Oh, that would be lovely.”

James sniggers beside her. Having known for as long as he has, reading her body language is easy for him.

The walk is short, but she is thankful she remembers to dig through her bag for a pair of gloves and cast a quick warming charam on them before they leave the Ministerstvo. James watches her do this with a glint of amusement in his eye, to which she rolls her own.

She hates to admit it, but it  _ is _ a nice walk to the hotel, aching cold aside. The hotel and the Ministerstvo are both located in an area that is brimming with well kept and restored historic buildings. Hermione has to admit the beauty of the Russian architecture; particularly on these older buildings. Though as lovely as the walk is, she is relieved as they approach the hotel.

The entrance’s front is a lovely muggle cafe. Maxim ushers them in, directing them to the back. He steps ahead, reaching for a door marked with a fairly universal symbol for “do not enter” and a cyrillic phrase neatly printed across it - though Hermione’s Russian is quite rough (meaning non-existent) so she can’t be entirely sure as to what it says. Maxim waves them through, and they are through the doorway into the lobby of an extremely lush hotel.

Hermione freezes as she takes in the extravagance of the lobby. Everything is gold and white; “Russians really do love their gold,” she mutters under her breath to James as Maxim takes the lead again, taking them to the front desk. James grins back but doesn’t reply.

The clerk, a skinny and dark haired man who stands so perfectly straight that Hermione’s back aches just looking at him, smiles as they approach, greeting them in Russian. 

Hermione doesn’t pay too close attention to their exchange as she absorbs the lobby, until Maxim turns back to them. “The porter will take you to your room. Get settled, rest for a bit, and I will collect you at 6:30 for our 7:00 reservations. This key connects you to the hotel’s wards; as long as you have it with you, you will be able to apparate directly to the suite,” he explains, handing the key to James.

Hermione frowns. “Wait - room? Don’t you mean - ” 

But Maxim is gone, and Hermione is talking to air.

“Rooms?”

Hermione turns back to James, still frowning. He is holding up the single key provided, and where Hermione is slightly confused, he looks entirely frazzled.

As it turns out, this is not, as Hermione hopes, a simple miscommunication caused by a language barrier. Maxim’s “room”  _ is _ technically accurate. But the room may be the largest hotel suite Hermione has ever been lucky enough to receive for accomodation, and for this she  _ is  _ thankful. The suite is the entire second from the top floor, and contains a large parlour, and on either end two separate bedrooms. This appears to be as large of a relief to James as it is to Hermione.

She starts working on the buttons of her robes as she moves towards the room to their right.

“I think I’m going to have a quick nap,” she tells James, glancing down at her wrist to check the time.

She and James had not spoken directly since Sunday dinner at the Burrow, and Hermione knows it is mostly her doing. She had purposely been avoiding any situation where she would be alone with him and possibly forced to exchange more than social niceties, and she is fairly sure he is aware of this. He has been quieter than usual to her, not that he had ever been much of a talker under normal conditions, but his new silence had started to make her slightly anxious. Which, in turn, is why she decides that hiding from her in her room is better than the awkward silence that would accompany her in the parlour.

She sighs as she throws her black outer robe onto the chair in the corner, falling onto the plush bed.

.oOo.

A knock on her door at promptly 6:30 pulls her away from the vanity where she has been double checking her hair. She isn’t a fan of professional - and in this case, fairly intimate - dinners, but one of the points Harry had emphasised before she and James had left London was the fact that Maxim Semenov, Head Auror at the Ministerstvo, had been a big support and invaluable foreign contact for Harry since his own promotion to Head Auror. This explanation was followed by a stern look wherein he also told the pair that during their time investigating Dolohov’s movements in Russia, he expected them to remember that they were ambassadors of sorts from the British Ministry, and they were expected to behave as such.

Which meant that a professional dinner was not something they could turn away from.

“Maxim is here,” comes James’s voice through the door, and Hermione gives one last glance at the mirror before making her way to the door.

James gives her a quick look-over, but Hermione feels thoroughly examined by his gaze. “You look nice,” he says simply before turning to where Maxim is standing in the parlour, and Hermione looks down at her dark blue dress, feeling oddly self-conscious of her choice for a moment.

Maxim greets them before beginning to lead them to the lift.

The entrance to the hotel they had used earlier in the day was not, apparently, the main entrance. What was  _ actually _ the main entrance was a large windowed wall with glass doors that lead out to the street that appeared to be the central avenue of Moscow’s wizarding neighbourhood, much akin to London’s own Diagon Alley.

The cobblestoned street is bustling, and Hermione is glad to find out that the restaurant Maxim is taking them to is literally around the corner from the hotel. So far, Moscow has proven to be slightly overwhelming.

Dinner is a fairly quiet affair; Hermione enjoys learning about the history of Russia’s wizarding community, Maxim seems more than happy to share this with her (the “Rasputin Years” as he calls them are the most interesting in her opinion,) and James appears to be continuing his odd quietness that Hermione finds mildly unsettling.

They part again after one last drink following the meal, at a fairly respectable time. “Big day tomorrow!” Maxim reminds them as he disappears with a  _ crack _ .

James holds out his arm to Hermione, and when she looks at him questioningly, he lifts the room key into her line of sight, and reluctantly she curls her hand into the crook of his arm. She has never been a fan of side-along apparition, unless she was the one leading. Ron used to joke that it was because she had control issues, and part of her, (a miniscule part) had thought he might be onto something with the theory.

As soon as they are back in the room, Hermione collapses onto the sofa, drained from the combination of international portkey travel, and the energies of an unfamiliar city.

“Nightcap?” James asks, making his way to the mini-bar under the window that overlooks the city, and Hermione nods. 

“I’m not sure what they’ve got going on with alcohol over here,” he says, and Hermione can hear the clinking of glass. “You would think since they knew a pair of Brits would be staying they would at least try to stock a firewhiskey.”

He passes Hermione a tumblr of a clear liquid as he lowers himself on the opposite end of the sofa from her. “Are we done with this whole pretending to not notice that we aren’t talking thing?” he asks after a moment of silence.

Hermione sighs, turning slightly towards him. “It’s not that we’re  _ not _ talking,” she tells him, grimacing slightly at the strength of the alcohol he’s poured. “I just - I  _ can’t _ talk about… him,” she says slowly. “And after dinner on Sunday, I suppose I got the feeling you wanted me to.”

James frowns. “Uh - well, it wasn’t really a feeling, seeing as I  _ did _ say that. But… you aren’t  _ obligated _ to talk about it - about him. It’s just that… well, talking about Lily with you was actually kind of… cathartic, in a way. I thought that I would give you the opportunity, too.” He makes a face as he takes a small sip of his own drink.

Hermione relaxes at his words. “I didn’t want to… not talk to you,” she explains, her voice softening. “And maybe someday I will be able to talk about him. But not yet.” 

James is scowling at his drink now. “This is terrible,” he tells her, changing the conversation. Hermione, thankful, nods in agreement. “Should we try some other terrible spirit? There has to be something on that cart that doesn’t taste like broom polish.” Hermione laughs at this, shaking her head.

The sound is light and airy, and for a moment James freezes upon hearing it. It’s a sound he hasn’t heard from her in far too long, and he smiles back at her, proud to be the one to have been able to make her laugh like that.

“No,” she tells him, still chuckling. “We have a busy day tomorrow - I think I should really have a good night’s sleep.”

James can’t disagree, so instead he takes her glass from her. “That’s a logic I can’t argue with.” He nods in approval as he sets both of their glasses on the coffee table, offering his hand to help her stand. “Get a good night’s sleep. Lots of Death Eater hunting to do tomorrow.”

Hermione nods back at him. “Good night, James,” she says, and makes her way into her room, closing the french doors behind her without looking back.


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this one is a little late again this week. Writing is no longer ahead of what I have posted - so eventually I will probably take a couple weeks break to get back ahead, but for now will just be posting as each chapter is ready. This one is unbeta’d because I just wanted to get an update out to you, so I apologise for any mistakes! Thanks again for all the awesome support. You guys are fantastic <3

The pair met Maxim at the Ministerstvo at nine the following morning. It’s an easy walk back, and the cold is certainly less unsettling than it was the day before. If this is because it is  _ actually _ a few degrees warmer or if it is because Hermione has begun to adjust to the cold, she can’t be sure. 

Maxim is waiting for them with the portkey when they arrive at the Auror offices; it’s an old leather boot that still seems to have a bit of mud caked onto the sole, and Hermione laments about how much she hates portkey travel as she takes in hand the second portkey in as many days. She dislikes many kinds of wizarding travel, she thinks as they are swept away into the aether. Why can’t wizards just use cars, or even bikes?

The portkey takes them to a clearing outside of the small wizarding village of Lenka, a couple hundred short kilometres northeast of St Petersburg. They walk to town from their arrival site, warming charms protecting them from the harsh Russian cold.

“Lenka is one of the oldest wizarding settlements in Russia,” Maxim tells them, setting a brisk pace. “My maternal grandparents lived here, I spent many a summer here growing up. It is beautiful here in the summer.”

As they approach the edge of town, the similarities to Hogsmeade become glaringly apparent to Hermione; mainly, the age and style of the buildings that begin to tower over them.

“According to our records, she owns a house on the western side of the village,” Maxim explains as they make their way towards the high street, and Hermione sighs. 

“You couldn’t have gotten a Portkey to take us to the other side of the village?”

Maxim laughs. “No, my dear. My apologies, but the Ministerstvo only allows Portkeys to that single designated location. The village’s wards ensure this - helps monitor criminal activities.” He points down a side street before changing his direction, leading them across the high street. 

It’s about a half hour walk by foot, but soon they are standing in the street in front of a two story cottage home. It was the last house on the street, broken off from the rest of the neighbourhood, a thick brush of trees between it and the next house. It was further back from the road than the others, an unloved and dilapidated fence lining the property, its paint - which may once have been white, but now was grey with age - peeling in more places than it wasn’t. Tied to some of poles appeared to be chicken legs, which made Hermione furrow her brows. 

“The children of the village call her Baba Yaga,” Maxim says with a laugh as they stand in front of the house. 

“Baba Yaga?” James mouths at Hermione behind Maxim’s back, frowning slightly. 

“Old Russian folklore,” she whispers back. “She was a hag who stole and ate children, and lives in a hut - ” she glances back at the fences, realisation dawning and bit back a laugh. “ - a hut set upon chicken legs,” she finishes, pointing a finger to the fence poles. 

Maxim chuckles. “Yes, children do have the oddest sense of entertainment. It’s a dare, the legs. A proof of one’s courage. Get as close as you can to the house, leaving the chicken legs as a marker of this.”

He reaches for the gate, swinging it open, and Hermione and James follow in line. Maxim walks up the creaking front steps, and knocks on the door with a few quick taps. 

They wait a few moments, and when there is no answer Maxim knocks again, this time louder. A third time he knocks, this time pounding the side of his fist against the door, addressing whoever may be inside with Russian. Hermione approaches a window, attempting to peer through the curtains, but to no avail. 

“I don’t think anyone’s home,” she says finally, turning back to Maxim and James, who both turn to her direction.

“Or they are avoiding talking to anyone,” James replies pointedly, and both him and Hermione turn their gazes to Maxim. 

“Let’s give the benefit of the doubt,” he reasons. “Let’s go back to the high street, mull around for a bit there, and if by the time we return we cannot get anyone to answer the door, we will see if we can’t find a way in.”

This sounds like a fair plan to Hermione, so she nods in agreement, her gaze falling to James. The Auror bounces his head from side to side, weighing the prospects of the suggestion, before nodding as well. Maxim led the way once again, backtracking them to the bustling central street that contains most of the shopping district. Looking at her watch, Hermione realises it has been hours since her morning cup of coffee. 

“We could grab brunch while we wait?” she suggests, and the others agree. 

.oOo.

The cafe that Maxim takes them to is quaint. It has a more modern feel to it than many of the establishments that Hermione is used to in London or even Hogsmeade, and Maxim orders for them as the menus are in Russian. “My niece has told me they have fantastic  _ syrniki _ here,” he tells them as he passes his menu to the waitress.

“So. What’s the full story between you and Dolohov?” Maxim finally asks as their food arrives, much to Hermione’s surprise.

“What makes you think there’s a story?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

Maxim quirks one of his own back. “Oh, come on, Hermione. From what I hear, you’ve spent the better part of two years making contacts across every government in Europe, tracking this wizard. One doesn’t put that level of effort into something that isn’t personal, especially when you’re not an Auror anymore.” 

James looks over to Hermione, hoping to gauge her reaction, but her face is as hard as stone.

They sit in silence for a few moments, until Hermione finally speaks. “History more than ‘a story’,” she tells him. “When I was 16, he almost killed me. The same spell he has been using on all those girls. I very nearly died. When I was 18, he killed my parents. And when I was 20, he killed my husband.” Hermione’s eyes meet James’s, and she can see he is barely breathing, watching her carefully. “That man has taken more from me than I can even begin to describe.”

Hermione is answering Maxim, but her eyes meet James’s as she speaks. Her voice is low, and though James knows all this, he has never heard the words in her voice before. The calmness in her voice is startling.

“There’s no story. History? Sure. It’s personal? Extremely. But there’s no story. Only fact. And the fact is, I plan on making sure that Antonin Dolohov pays for every one of his crimes.”

It’s a deeply disturbing promise, because for the first time in all the years James has known this woman, he is genuinely  _ terrified _ of her. There is a part of him that is fairly certain she doesn’t mean the wizard is going to rot in Azkaban, and at this same moment, realisation dawns over him.

With his own loss, at almost the exact age she had lost Ron, had made him disinterested and detached from his life; had deflated him. If it hadn't been for Harry, the child that had needed him, he likely would have simply… faded away. Hermione’s loss, on the other hand, had hardened her. It had tried to douse that flame deep in her soul, but had instead fueled it, until sitting here in front of him was  _ fiendfyre _ , and her fingers were twitching at the prospect of revenge.

Her loss had made her  _ vengeful _ .

How had he missed this all these years?

Of course the outlying factor is they have never been this close to Dolohov before. James thinks back - was it only a week before this same witch had been leaving his son’s office, looking frail and broken and  _ lost _ ? Without a fraction of the determination in her eyes that he saw now?

James shifts uncomfortably in his chair under her gaze, and he understands. Last night she had said she couldn’t talk to him about it - not yet. This is her opening that door, testing the waters. It’s a beginning.

.oOo.

They return to the house at the end of the lane when it is still early in the afternoon. Maxim once agains knocks on the door, with Hermione and James huddled behind him on the stoop, until a soft, feminine voice draws their attention back to the street.

There is a woman standing outside of the yard; maybe in her thirties, with a small child balanced on her hip as she speaks to them in Russian. Maxim responds, and as they converse the three start to make their way towards her.

“She says she hasn’t seen Ms Chekov in weeks,” he tells them in English.

“Not normal,” the woman confirms in heavily accented and broken English. “Anna, she is grumpy woman, but she love garden. She spend hours in garden every day. But not in weeks now.”

Maxim says something back to her in Russian, and whatever it is, clearly is dismissive as the woman turns and leaves back to her own home across the street. “I don’t like the sounds of that,” he says with a frown, closing the distance that the other two had given him while he spoke with the woman. “But based off of her alone we don’t have cause to enter the premises.”

Hermione turns her gaze back to the house, brows furrowed. “There has to be something - If I could just get a peek through one of the windows…”

She makes her way around the east side of the house, James and Maxim close behind. As they come around the back of the building, Hermione spots a secondary entrance, and starts to make a beeline straight to the door. Her heart flutters slightly in excitement when she realises the curtains that cover the window in the door are lacy, fairly transparent, and even parted in the center, giving her a clean line of sight down the hallway inside.

The only light that shines down the hall is from the windows at the front of the house, though that is more than enough light for her to make out the sight of something dark and streaky leading down the hallway and through a doorway towards the front of the house. 

“Maxim,” she calls, her voice low. “Uh - does that look like blood to you?” she asks, stepping aside to give him enough room to peer inside as well.

The man’s shoulders drop, and he spares a look back at her. “I’d say enough to give us just cause,” he confirms, pulling his wand from his robes and stepping back from the door. Hermione and James follow suit, wands in hand. “ _ Alohomora! _ ”

The spell doesn’t appear to do anything, and Maxim jangles the door handle hard, hoping that perhaps, just maybe, it’s stuck. But the effort is useless. With a shrug, he puts a hand out to make sure his companions are behind him, before aiming a hard-hitting  _ bombarda _ at the door handle.

Hermione is impressed by his aim as the door swings open, still on its hinges though a large, jagged hole is now where the handle had once been. She always tended to put a little too much behind the spell in her excitement, and too often sent the door flying off the wall, crashing into whatever was on the other side. 

She tightened her grip on her wand as she passed the threshold into the house, following Maxim with James right on her heel. James followed the first doorway through the entrance, into what looked like a small kitchen, and Maxim followed the streak in the hall - which Hermione was now certain was, actually, blood - and she takes the room opposite of him, to their left. The room appears to be a den of some sort, shelves with books and trinkets lining the walls and a desk at the center, but is otherwise empty - at least, of another person. She makes her way back to the hallway, where James is already heading towards the room Maxim went to. She follows.

Immediately, the first thing that hits her is the stench. Hermione is no stranger to death; but her experiences have all certainly been far…  _ fresher  _ than the state they find Anna Chekov in. She ignores her body’s impulse to heave as she pushes further into the room, her eyes watering slightly.

“I suppose we can now confirm that your wizard was here,” Maxim says as Hermione steps up beside him.

Hermione takes a quick survey of the scene. The trail of blood leading from the hallway to where Anna lays at the center of the room, the gash at her throat which likely would be found to be the cause of death, as well as the reason for the amount of blood spilled in her death. One of her arms is twisted at an unnatural angle under her body, but the other is outstretched over her head, and Hermione can see her fingertips are bloody and the skin raw - she had probably tried to pull herself out of her assailants grip, scratching her fingers along the hardwood floors as he dragged her.

Her grey hair was soaked red  _ almost _ through, and her eyes were still open, terror frozen on her face.

Her death had been gruesome, and as Hermione takes this all in, it’s almost overwhelming again.

“We need to clear the rest of the house,” she says finally, eyes moving the staircase that leads upstairs, and Maxim nods in agreement. Hermione takes the lead this time, followed by Maxim, then James.

There are more rooms upstairs than down, and they each take their own, moving down the hall after ensuring each room is empty. 

Until James gets to the last room.

His voice startles Hermione, and she rushes down the hall to meet him, where he stands in the doorway of the last room, shoulders sagging. “This one is more recent,” he tells her as they enter the room.

And this kill is. The smell of decomposing flesh that had so nearly knocked Hermione off her feet downstairs is noticeably absent, and the blood that pools on the floor around the body is dark and though not wet, appears tacky. Hermione is tempted to test if the body is still in rigor mortis, but decides it best to leave the forensic work for Maxim’s investigative team instead.

The girl is young. Hermione forces herself to ignore this, putting a mental block on feeling and just letting her mind take in fact. She has long red hair, but light; closer to a strawberry blonde. She isn’t wearing much for clothing, and her body is still bound from ankle to knee and again around her chest, restraining her arms behind her body. She is gagged, and Hermione frowns at just how  _ mundane _ the image is, at least until she takes notice of the wound on the girl’s abdomen.

Without a doubt it is clear now that Dolohov was here, and recently.

This makes her mind and body buzz, magic tingling on her fingertips, and she clenches her hands into tight fists to try and calm the storm threatening to break out. They were so,  _ so _ close.

A strangled gasp from the doorway behind her distracts her, and her magic settles.

“ _ Irina! _ ” Maxim yells, and the wall she had forced up to keep her own emotions at bay comes crumbling down. Maxim lets out a string of Russian as he rushes into the room, dropping to his knees beside the girl. He is talking so fast that Hermione isn’t sure if he is actually articulating anything - his hands hovering over the girls face.

Hermione starts to reach for him, but James’s hand is on her shoulder, stopping her. 

“Just - just give him a minute,” he says. “Just let him have a minute before - ” he breaks off, his eyes meeting hers, and she nods slowly.

Her eyes look past him for a moment, deep in thought, and that’s when she sees it.

On the wall behind James, written in the girl’s blood, a message. Hermione’s blood runs cold.

_ For you _

_ 18/06/96 _

.oOo.

One thing Hermione respected was the rule in Russia that any crime scene with a fatality must be attended by a Healer with a mastery in Spell Damage. This ensures that an efficient understanding as to what magic was used, what physical injuries were, and a cause of death; much more efficient, in fact, than Britain’s policy of having Aurors attempt to identify magic used at the scene, then having a Healer determine cause of death once the body had been moved to St Mungo’s. Obviously whoever had set the British Ministry’s policies did not consider the way that muggle investigators did their jobs.

Not that the British Ministry considered anything muggles did with any serious thought.

As she had assumed, Anna Chekov’s cause of death was ruled as exsanguination by severation of the carotid artery. No spell was used; this had been done with a knife that had not yet been found in the house, though Hermione suspected it would not be found.

The girl, Irina, had died of the same curse as the other victims Hermione had been tracking, and only after she had been tortured. Cruciatus, severing hexes, broken fingers, broken ribs, amongst others. At least Anna’s death had been fairly quick.

“It’s an odd coincidence, isn’t it?” James asks Hermione once they’ve landed back in their hotel, watching Hermione as she heads straight for the bar at the far end of the room. “That Dolohov’s victim was Maxim’s niece?” he clarifies.

Hermione doesn’t respond right away. The bottles clink against each other as she lifts each up, trying to make sense of the labels. With a bit of a sigh, she picks one, pours herself a shot, and downs it. 

She shakes her head. “Of course it’s not a coincidence,” she says, her voice quiet. “Dolohov isn’t a common thug, James. He’s intelligent, talented, and conniving. He knew exactly who Irina was when he targeted her. He’s sending a message.” She pours two shots this time, offering the second to James.

He slowly makes his way over, lifting the glass to his nose before his lips, grimacing slightly at the burn as it coats his throat. “I can’t believe they had to sedate Maxim to get him out of the house.”

It had been a terrible sight - Maxim, inconsolable in his grief, wouldn’t leave his niece. In the end when the other Aurors had arrived, they had been forced to stun him and force him a particularly high dose of Calming Draught, removing him in a stretcher before taking him to hospital. But as terrible as it may sound, Hermione had been almost jealous of the unrestricted, unguarded way the man had let his emotions go - in all her mourning, she had never so freely grieved.

She glances at her watch before filling both of their glasses again.

“James - I’m sorry. I don’t want to sound like - a bitch, I guess, but… I really don’t want to talk about this right now. What I really want is to finish this bottle of whatever Russian poison they have made available, and try to forget the stench of death.” She forgoes the glass, lifting the bottle in a toasting motion and then straight to her lips instead.

James watches her for a moment as she walks back towards the center of the room, fighting with the buttons on her uniform with her free hand and collapsing back onto the sofa. After a moment of consideration, he grabs a bottle of his own, although he decides to take his glass with him.

“How many more times until we can call ourselves ‘drinking buddies’?” she asks with smirk.


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, another update so soon. Hope you like. This one is also unbeta’d. Of course, come say hi to me on tumblr sometime, where I am also nyxphos! I love to hear what ya’ll are thinking :)
> 
> Trigger warning for violence at the beginning of this chapter. ALSO I will not be individually adding trigger warnings to each chapter going forward. This is an E rated fic. You’ve been warned.

.oOo.

_Ron’s blue eyes, usually full of laughter and mirth, are blank - dull, nearly grey in their lifelessness. The sight makes Hermione stop dead in her tracks, trying to process what she is seeing._

_“Ron?_ Ron! _” she screams, dropping to her knees harder than she expected, the wood making her knees ache. “Ron…”_

 _She is shaking him, trying to make him move, make him blink, make him_ react _to her presence, but there is nothing. His hand, as she tightens her fingers around it, is cold to the touch, his body stiff as she tries to pull at him. There is nothing._

_And then there is the creaking of the hallway, and a hand on her head, forcing her skull to impact with the wall, leaving an ache in her brain and stars in her eyes as she collapses to the floor from the force of the impact. She groans, trying to make sense of the world around her, but the throbbing in the side of her skull is too distracting._

_Then there is a hand in her hair, pulling her back, away from Ron and dragging her to her feet. She struggles, as best as she can, still dazed from the impact with the wall; she reaches back, clawing at the hand that is tangled in her hair. She kicks her legs out, trying to get the grip to falter, but to no avail; it is an iron vice, solid and unyielding._

_She is thrown against the wall, and the hand is now on her throat; lifting, tightening, until she is trying hard to balance on the tips of her toes to prevent herself from hanging in the grip of her attacker. Struggling for breath, she forces her eyes open, greeted by pools of black and an amused smirk._

_“I forgot just how much fight you had in you,” comes the deep baritone of Antonin Dolohov, and for just a moment, Hermione is frozen._

_“Fuck you,” she rasps, but the words burn her constricted throat and she can’t be sure they are audible over the ragged air it takes to attempt the sound. The message is clear, though, because those black pools are dancing as the harsh sound of his laughter reaches her ears._

_As she digs her nails into his arm, she glances over his shoulder. There, a few inches from Ron’s body, is her wand - if she could just…_

_The grip on her throat relinquishes as her foot makes contact with his shin, but before she can slip past him his hand is in her hair again, her scalp_ screaming _as he pulls her back up before slamming her head back into the wall, once again dazing her - and then she is falling…_

_Falling…_

Falling.

Right off of the edge of the sofa. Her elbow catches on the coffee table right before her spine crashes into the floor, her feet still in the air, hanging over James’s legs. She groans from the impact, and her legs fall to the floor as James adjusts, jolted into consciousness from the commotion.

He had fallen asleep sitting up, his legs stretched out onto the coffee table; Hermione realises she likely had slept laying across the sofa, stretching her legs over his lap at some point during the night. He still wears his scarlet Auror robes, though they are unbuttoned, and Hermione is currently tangled in her own black robes, having used them as a makeshift blanket. 

“Merlin, Hermione - are you alright?” James asks, reaching a hand out to her to help her back onto the sofa. 

She winces, but nods; “I’m fine,” she assures him. “But did you sleep there all night? That can’t have been comfortable.”

James shrugs, grabbing her legs and setting them over his lap again as he scoots her a bit closer to him so he can inspect her elbow. “You’re bleeding,” he tells her with a sigh, rummaging beside him into the crack of the cushions to pull out his wand and cast a minor healing charm on the broken skin. Then, with a smirk, he looks up at her; “Do you normally throw yourself around in your sleep?”

She shakes her head, watching him work on her elbow. “Just when I have bad dreams,” she admits without thinking, grimacing at the sting of magic on the wound. Her throat is dry and sore, and it brings back the memory of hands wrapping around her neck…

She shivers, her whole body shuddering, and James scolds her. “Keep still just a second…” And then he pulls back, tongue between his lips as he surveys his work. “Good as new.” He gives her knee a gentle pat as she pushes herself back to the far side of the sofa, checking the spot he had healed with her own eyes.

“Nice work, Potter. Didn’t realise you had it in you to be a mediwitch,” she smirks.

“You’re kidding, right?” he asks, throwing his feet back up onto the coffee table and leaning back, hands behind his head. “You know how my kid was. If I’d not learned at least a few minor healing charms while he was growing up, we’d have been liable to be at St Mungo’s every other day,” he chuckles. It’s short-lived, however, as the smirk drops from her lips and he looks at her seriously. “They fade, y’know. Eventually.”

Hermione stares at him for a moment, at the way he stares ahead, lost in thought, and she nods. “I know,” she tells him; and she does. She hadn’t been lying to Harry when she told him she hadn’t dreamt about that night in years; perhaps the previous day had brought up old traumas, but it _was_ unusual that she had that dream again.

“What time is it?” she asks, changing the subject, and James brings one of his hands from behind his neck to check his watch.

“Like, five in the morning.”

“Oh good. I can rest a bit yet,” she says, yawning as she reclines herself a bit more, stretching her legs out across James’s lap again without thinking.

She freezes when she feels James’s hand on her ankle. It’s just sitting there, a light weight against her skin; he probably didn’t even realise. But it’s a foreign feeling for Hermione; the relaxed familiarity.

Once upon a time, Hermione had been a very physical person; with her friends hugs, hand squeezes, and arms resting on shoulders had been in abundance. Touching had been her love language - friendship or otherwise. If this had been only five short years earlier, James’s hand on her ankle would likely have relaxed her.

As it is now, the feeling _is_ foreign. Not _bad_ , but foreign - and she realises, consciously for the first time in years, exactly how much she had pulled herself away from her friends and family. And after so long of pulling herself away from the comfort of touch, she has to remind herself that it is _definitely_ not appropriate to curl herself against his side and pull his arm across her shoulders. 

She lets her head fall back over the arm of the sofa, a small sigh escaping her lips as she forced her eyes closed.

“Do you dream about it often?” James asks, oblivious to her thoughts.

“No,” she tells him honestly, sighing again. “I think yesterday just… brought up some old shit.”

“I’d be more surprised if it hadn’t.” Silence, again, but only for a moment. “I’m not going to force you to talk about anything you’re not ready to, but I’ll say it again; when you’re ready, I’ll listen. It does help.”

She doesn’t argue, or make excuses, as she has before. Instead, she reaches down the sofa, placing her hand on his forearm and squeezing it gently. “Thank you,” is all she says, and her grip softens as she nestles herself into the crook of the sofa, drifting back into a light sleep while she still had the time.

This one is thankfully dreamless.

.oOo.

When she wakes again, it’s to a gentle tapping on glass, the sound coaxing her from sleep rather than jolting. Half awake, she feels hands on her ankles, rearranging the angle that they rest at, and feels James rising. 

“Hermione?” comes his voice after a moment, and then his hand is on her arm, shaking her gently. “Hermione, you need to get up.”

Hermione’s eyes fluttered open as she turned her head towards James’s voice. “Mmm… what’s going on, James?” she asks, her eyes falling on the parchment in his hand.

“We’re being recalled,” he says, with a frown, “Back to London - immediately. Something’s happened.” Hermione sits up quickly, frowning as James continues. “Harry doesn’t say what’s happened, but he’s contacted the Ministerstvo and arranged a portkey for our immediate return.” 

“We still have much to do here, though,” Hermione begins to argue, her frown deepening.

James shakes his head. “The Russian Ministry will continue their investigation and keep us apprised of anything they may find - but we need to go home,” he tells her, offering a hand to help her from the sofa. She takes it an begins to pull on her black robes, shaking her head.

“No, James - this is too important, we are too close, we - “

“ _We need to go home, Hermione_.” James’s voice becomes serious as he walks towards his room, leaving Hermione to straighten her robes. She can hear him rummaging in the room, the click of suitcase locks, and she speaks after him.

“ _James_ \- no one has been this close to Dolohov in years - ”

“ _Hermione._ ” There is something in his voice that is final, and he is in the doorway, looking back at her. “You are not an Auror anymore - this is technically _my_ investigation, and _we are done here_. We are going back to London. Now.”

Hermione purses her lips, almost pouting, and she suddenly looks like she did when she was younger, and was put out because she didn’t like something someone else had to say.

“We can talk about it if you’re still mad at me after we get back,” he tells her, shrinking his suitcase and tucking it into the pocket of his robes.

“ _Fine_.”

She grabs her beaded bag from the coffee table, conceding to follow James. Their trip back to London is surprisingly quick. They check out of the hotel, apparate to the Ministerstvo, and stop into the Aurory to let Maxim’s temporary stand-in know they are leaving. With promises to stay in contact from both sides, they make their way to Departing International Portkeys, and before lunch they are back in London, the familiarity of the British Ministry immediately calming Hermione’s nerves.

This is only for a moment, however, because they are greeted by a young Auror, Malcolm Alexander, who anxiously begins ushering them upstairs.

“It’s a complete mess,” he half-whispers in a rushed tone, “There’s a meeting of the entire DMLE happening right now. Potter and Brockert are waiting for you two to get started.”

Malcolm is right; the DMLE is in complete uproar when they arrive. Every Auror, Hit Wizard, and Magical Law Enforcement Officer employed by the Department is on the floor; sitting, standing, leaning on desks wherever there is room. Harry nods at them as they move to the back of the room, Hermione leaning back onto the wall behind her.

“Attention please!” He addresses the room using what Hermione had come to refer to as his _Boss Voice_. “At 3:00 a.m. this morning, a group of four infiltrated Azkaban Prison.” There was a collective gasp throughout the assembled crowd, and Hermione’s back straightened tensely. “They managed to break out nine prisoners. The Lestrange brothers, Corban Yaxley, Evan Rosier, Alecto Carrow, Thorfinn Rowle, Creighton Travers, Sander Selwyn, and Hephaestus Mulciber have been confirmed as the escapees.”

Hermione felt sick, and turned her head to gauge James’s reaction to the announcement. He was standing as stiff as Hermione felt, his eyes narrowed as he listened to Harry.

“At the same time, a second group of just three broke into the Ministry, and these offices. This was a clear provocation, and it was at this time that one of our own - Auror Roger Davies, was killed. I believe their purpose here was for nothing more than to make us aware they _could_ , if they so chose, and Auror Davies death served no other purpose than to be a message to us. I know this is shocking to hear, but it is of the utmost importance that we do everything we can to ensure that Davies’s death was not in vain.”

Hermione turns her whole body so her back is to Harry and Brockert. She grabs James’s arm, leaning close to him and whispers, “James, this was fucking Dolohov.”

He frowns back at her. “Hermione… you just finished saying this morning how close we were to Dolohov, and now you’re saying this was him?”

“You don’t get it!” she exclaims, then glances around before leaning in closer. “Russia was a warning for _me_. ‘For you, 18/06/96’ - the day of the fight in the Department of Mysteries, the day Dolohov almost killed me. Azkaban, Davies - _this_ was a message for _everyone_ \- no one is safe. This is all just a game to him.” 

James considers what she is saying with his intense gaze on her. “We’ve been working for years with the understanding that the remainders of the Death Eaters have been unorganised and unassociated from each other - it would also appear we were either wrong, or someone has organised them,” he thinks aloud.

“Possibly Dolohov himself,” Hermione agrees.

“Fair observations, Granger, Potter,” comes a gruff voice from behind Hermione, and she whips around to find Brockert and Harry standing there. “Let us convene in the younger Mr Potter’s office, if you do not mind.”

Hermione nods to the pair, sparing James a glance before she follows to the Head Auror’s office. James, being the last of the four to enter, closed the door behind him.

“Why was Davies even here?” Hermione asked, taking a seat next to Brockert. James hung back by the door, leaning one shoulder on the wall.

“He wasn’t,” said Harry with a serious look. “They took him from his home and brought him here just for us to find. Like you said; it’s a warning. He wants to make sure everyone knows they’re not safe; not in their own homes, not here. And what about Russia?”

Hermione lets James respond, still a little put out by his chastising earlier (although that feeling was definitely lessened with the knowledge that more than likely Dolohov was already back in Britain. “He was definitely there. At his aunt's house we found two bodies - the aunt, and another victim who turned out to be the niece of their Head Auror. The Ministerstvo is still processing the scene, but I think it was very clear who was responsible.”

Brockert turns to Hermione. “What made you so sure that Dolohov is responsible for what happened here last night?” he asks.

Hermione shrugs. “Intuition? He was the last of the big ticket Death Eaters we haven’t round up, and I don’t think there’s a chance that any of the others still around have the capabilities of organising or planning to that extent. It makes sense it would be him.”

Brockert nods slowly, considering her words as he turns towards Harry.

“We agree,” Harry tells them. “And we have decided that you two are going to keep working the Dolohov case. Our best chance to get ahead of this before the situation gets any worse is to track that fucker down, and hopefully the rest will crumble.”

Hermione nods in agreement. Was it only two days before she was yelling at her friend in this very office for pairing the two of them together? It felt like months. But the day before had only managed to show her she needed someone who _understood_ with her through this.

_How had that happened?_

She had spent years attempting to track Dolohov on her own, in secret. It had never bothered her before; but she also hadn’t been this close to him since _that night_ all those years ago. And as much as Hermione Granger - or Hermione Granger-Weasley - hated admitting she was wrong, she had to admit that she wasn’t entirely sure what kind of a state she would have been in if she had stumbled across the scene from the day before without a comforting and familiar presence.

“I have an idea on where to start,” she says, after a moment. “The Malfoys - I actually don’t doubt Draco and Narcissa have been walking a straight line, but Lucius is still in Azkaban. What do you suppose the chances are Dolohov has attempted to make contact with them?”

“Good call,” Harry says. “Let’s go that direction.” It’s a dismissal, and they all take it as such, James reaching for the door as Brockert and Hermione move to stand. “Oh, Hermione, could you stay back for a minute?”

Hermione settles herself back into the chair as Brockert and James leave.

Once the door clicks shut, Harry turns to Hermione, his voice urgent. “Hermione, I know I haven’t brought this up in a long time, because I have respected your connection to that house, but I feel I must once again urge you to consider moving; especially if Dolohov is active again - ”

“Harry, I am not being ran out of my home,” she tells him, shaking her head.

“You need to be smart about this - be _safe_ , Hermione. I know we went a little overboard with the wards since the last time - ”

“And they will _hold_ ,” Hermione assured him. “I’m not leaving that house.” She stands, moving to the door.

“I’m not going to fight you on it,” he sighs, slumping slightly in his chair, “I just wanted you to know where I stand.”

“Thank you,” she says carefully, hand on the door handle. “I know you care. But it is my choice.” Harry nods at her.

Brockert stops her on her way past his office. “What did Potter want?” he asks in his usual gruff bark. Hermione shrugs back at him.

“Personal,” is all she says, pausing to salute him before making her way to her own office.

.oOo.

Sirius is sitting at James’s kitchen table at his flat when he arrives home, already having helped himself to the Ogden’s hidden under the sink. “How was your trip?” he asks, finishing the glass as James hangs his robes on the coat rack beside the door.

“Eventful,” James admits honestly, grabbing a glass from the sink and making his way towards the table. “You know. Murders and crime scenes and all that.” He grabs the bottle, pouring a generous portion into his glass.

“Is that all?” Sirius asks with a raised brow, and James frowns at the question.

“Yes?” he replies with a frown. “Why?”

Sirius chuckles. “You smell like lavender,” he tells his friend, leaning back into the chair he occupies, and then chuckles again at how flustered James gets.

“Jesus, Sirius! I was there with _Hermione_ ,” James says through clenched teeth, but Sirius appears unaffected by this.

“Oh, I’m aware; I’m not saying you fucked her five ways ‘til Tuesday, I’m just saying you smell like you were getting awfully close, and when you first got home you seemed much more relaxed than you usually are.” He chuckles again as James glares at him. “Listen; all I’ve wanted since you lost Lily is to see you find some semblance of peace again, if not happiness. I know you’ve tried so hard to hide how lost you’ve been, but you’ve always been a shit liar. And that poor girl deserves some happiness just as much as you. Have you considered - ”

“You stop that thought right there, Sirius Black,” James snapped. “Hermione - she’s a wonderful young woman. But I have _never_ thought that way about her. She’s my kid’s best friend - I’ve known her since she was eleven, for Merlin’s sake. There’s eighteen years between us.”

Sirius pushes himself up from his chair, moving towards the fireplace. “Y’know, I’ve always thought that one of the bonuses of being a wizard was a long lifespan that makes large age gaps seem insignificant,” he laughs out, and James’s glass smashes against the back of the fireplace as Sirius disappears in a swirl of emerald flames.

“Bastard,” James breathes to no one but himself, but Sirius words are already starting to sink in.

He had been honest; he _hadn’t_ ever thought of Hermione that way. But it had less to do with Hermione herself and more to do with the fact that he hadn’t thought of _any_ woman in that for far too many years.

His worry was that having someone bring his attention to her would crack the damn.

.oOo.


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, I absolutely not mean to be gone quite so long. I hope you can all forgive me. I know so many people cracked down in the middle of all the insanity of the last few months and got quite a bit done, but it was the opposite for me. I was laid off work for a period, and ended up not in a great place mentally, and unfortunately this story suffered for it. Looks like things may be rolling again, though, so I hope I can keep this up. Please enjoy the update, and let me know what you think!

If there was one place in the entire world Hermione had never planned to step foot again, it was Malfoy Manor. And as she walks up the path from the gate of the Wiltshire estate, an anxiousness settles deep in her chest that tightens her breathing.

“Are you alright?” James asks, and for a moment she is surprised by his perceptiveness.

“Fine,” is all she says, shortly.

Through the years, she’d carried no ill-will or malice for the Malfoys. Well, Narcissa or Draco, at least - Lucius could certainly rot in his cell in Azkaban for the rest of his life, for all she cared. She had bumped Draco and Narcissa here and there throughout the years after their trials (trials at which both she and Harry had testified in their favour) but with Draco, there had never been more than an acknowledging nod. Narcissa, on the other hand, she had encountered with slightly more frequency, and their exchanges had always been cordial. She suspected that Draco’s insistence they were to meet at Malfoy Manor was related to privacy; while he may have no qualms about meeting with her or James - or Harry, for that matter - she knew there were more than a few Aurors in the Aurory that would jump at the opportunity to give the Malfoys a hard time.

The tightness in Hermione’s chest gets worse as they crest the hill of the path to the manor, the full house coming into eyesight for the first time, and she stops dead in her tracks, her breathing shallowing. James’s hand is on her arm almost instantly, both emotionally comforting and physically supportive, holding her up.

“Merlin, ‘Mione, are you sure you’re alright?” he asks, turning himself so they are facing each other, his head tilted down to get her to meet his eyes. “Breathe!” he tells her.

“Yes,” she gasps, and she rocks the knuckles of her fist against her sternum, trying to massage out the tightness there. “I’m - I’m fine. I just… I just need a second. It's the first time I’ve been here since…” she trails off, her amber eyes wide as she looks up at him.

“Since the war,” he finishes quietly, understandingly even, as his gaze leaves hers and rakes over her left arm, which is tight in his grip. “You’re having a panic attack,” he tells her.

She nods. “They used to be fairly frequent, but they had started to get under control,” she tells him, now rubbing the heel of her palm between her breasts, her breath slowly normalising. “After the war… and then again after Ron died.”

Hermione can see the surprise on James’s face, and knows it’s because she had done her best to hide just how much these things had affected her, from as many people as she could. After the war she had forced herself to go on like life had become wonderful; she could remember the _Golden Trio in Love!_ that had graced the Daily Prophet and Witch Weekly, complete with photographs of her and Ron, and Harry and Ginny. 

And then, of course, after Ron’s death, she had started to pull herself away. She worked very hard to become the feared force of nature she is known as now, distancing herself and hardening her image.

And yet, standing with the gothic structure looming in her view, Hermione feels like nothing more than that scared little girl who had been bedridden for weeks - nearly comatose from the trauma sustained from within these very walls - after her last and only visit to this very place. The sight of the manor alone is suffocating, but when James reaches out and puts a hand on her upper arm, it’s grounding. 

“We can go back,” he tells her in a low voice. “We can send someone else here, or insist Draco and Narcissa come to the Ministry - ”

“No,” Hermione rasps, cutting him off. “I need... to do this. This place… it’s one of my last demons from that time. I think… being here might be good for me,” she says, and James nods in understanding.

“I had to go back to Godric’s Hollow, after Lily died. I get it. I didn’t… _want_ to, and it might not work for everyone, but I think for some people, facing the places where we experienced a trauma can help us heal.” He releases her arm, taking a step back. “Take as long as you need. We’ll go only when you’re ready.”

They stand in silence at the crest of the path for a few moments, Hermione eyeing the manor, her breathing having returned to normal. Finally, with a final glance at James, she starts moving toward the manor again.

It’s a shorter walk than it had appeared to be from the top of the path, and when they reach the door, it opens before James can reach the knocker. Standing in the doorway is a small, ancient looking house elf. 

“Master and Mistress is expecting you,” he says, and steps aside to allow the pair entry. He bows, his faded, ragged blue pillowcase he wears wrinkling around his middle as he does, and Hermione is reminded of the last house elf she knows from this household. “They’s asked Link to escort you’s to the solarium for your meeting.”

He steps aside to allow Hermione and James to enter, and Hermione freezes in the doorway a moment, her hands balling into fists at her sides. James moves slowly without looking back, waiting for her to catch up. Finally Hermione moves again in quick steps, moving to James’s side.

The elf, Link, leads them through the foyer, and Hermione finds herself suddenly struck by the change in tone of the exterior of the building to the inside. The dark, gothic structure that had appeared so foreboding on the horizon during their approach, is instead bright and clean, at least through the foyer and down the hall they make their way through. It could be easy to forget where she currently is; the decor entirely different from the last time she had found herself inside these walls.

She wonders, for just a moment, if perhaps her dark memories of this place are tainted by her own experiences, but she shakes the thought away. Maybe Narcissa, like so many others following the end of the war, was trying to hide from the past. It was possible that a renovation was her way to disconnect the family estate from the horrors that had been committed here, outside of her hands and outside of her control. For that, Hermione could hardly fault the woman.

The solarium, bright and rife with greenery, is off the kitchen at the back end of the manor. At the centre of the room is a small circle of furniture; three handsome chairs, a sofa, and a loveseat which is currently occupied by an immaculately clothed Narcissa Malfoy.

“Ms Granger. Mr Potter,” she greets, her voice soft. Draco, standing behind the loveseat his mother sits at, nods at the pair. “Would you like anything to drink? I could have the elves wrangle up a quick tea?” she asks, smiling a polite - albeit tight - close-lipped smile.

“Thank you, Mrs Malfoy, but I don’t want to disrupt you more than we already have. We just had a few questions to ask and then can be on our way,” Hermione explains, taking a seat on the edge of one of the chairs across from Narcissa. James continues to stand, moving beside her.

“I’m not sure if you heard, but in the early hours of yesterday morning, there was a breakout at Azkaban prison,” James says, and at the words, Narcissa gasps, covering her mouth. Draco freezes, stone still, before turning his back to them. “Lucius is still in custody,” he clarifies.

Narcissa relaxes slightly at this, turning to her son to gauge his reaction. Draco turns his head slightly, his eyes meeting his mother’s before turning back. 

“This is Dolohov,” he says flatly, and the candor surprises Hermione. 

“That’s what we believe,” she agrees. “We don’t believe either of you to be involved,” she assures them. “But nine prisoners escaped - all former Death Eaters, all associates of Lucius’s. We are wondering if anyone has made contact with you leading up to the breakout?”

Draco turns back to them, his eyes lingering on his mother, before giving a small nod. “Dolohov sent a proxy to make contact. I did not ask his name - I didn’t want to know. As you are well aware, Granger, I have done everything I can to disconnect myself from my past, and the choices of my father. I want nothing to do with him. He can rot away in that prison for the rest of his life.” He forced his fists into his pockets.

“He asked for loyalty and in exchange he would return Lucius to us,” Narcissa says. “We turned the man away. But… I also told Draco not to report it,” she admits. “Astoria is pregnant. I didn’t want to put her at risk by having Dolohov retaliate for us having slighted him more than simply turning down his offer.”

“I understand, Mrs Malfoy,” Hermione assures her, her voice soft. “Can you describe the man Dolohov sent in his stead?”

“He was short - dark haired, spoke in accented English. Eastern European of some kind, I think. He wasn’t anyone I recognised from the old days.”

Hermione begins to stand, thanking them. “This has been very helpful. Thank you for speaking with us,” she says, and as she begins to follow James towards the door, she hears her name.

“Ms Granger - wait.” Hermione turns to see Narcissa standing, coming towards her. She reaches out, her arm set lightly upon Hermione’s as she leans in to speak in a low voice. “I have seen dark things in my life, Ms Granger. I think it is important for you to realise - the Dark Lord - Voldemort - was a madman. He was intelligent, yes, but his hunger for power drove him to push a cause he didn’t believe in to attract followers and create magic so dark it ripped apart his soul and shattered his mind. By the end he was nothing but simply insane. Dolohov, on the other hand, is entirely sane - and he genuinely _believes_ his so-called ‘cause’. I know we are not close, we are not friends… but I do appreciate what you did for my family. So I implore you to be cautious with Dolohov.”

Hermione nodded slowly as they withdrew from each other. She turned to follow James again, sparing one last glance back at Narcissa, who had moved back to join her son. 

She breaks away from James one last time in the foyer, once they are out of sight of the Malfoys, and stops in front of a set of double doors right before the stairs that lead upstairs. The doors are painted a pristine shade of white; unblemished and unscuffed. She reaches out, resting her open palms against the painted wood, her heart pounding as she thinks about the room beyond that door.

After a moment she pulls away, turning to see James waiting for her at the door patiently. 

“Maybe not _all_ traumas need to be faced head on,” she reasons with him, and he smiles back at her.

“Maybe different people need to face their traumas in their own ways,” he agrees.

.oOo.

The next week is particularly busy. Combined DMLE teams, with at least one Auror, Hit Wizard, and MLE Officer each, are sent to visit any surviving family members or the former homes of the escapees, to a mixture of reactions. Some are cooperative - like the Malfoys had been -, some are reluctant but don’t want to create a stir, and some are outright hostile. It takes a full week to complete the visits, and though Hermione thought it pointless from the start, she can’t argue with covering all their bases.

While the searches do turn up some illegal (and often dark) artifacts - including a dragon egg that by Hermione’s estimation could be ready to hatch any day given the correct amount of heat - not a single escapee is found. There have been a few tips owled in; possible sightings of the Lestrange brothers and Alecto Carrow that she and James have to follow up on, but these bear no fruit either. 

By the end of the week, Hermione is exhausted and frustrated, and very much considering leaving her job to take up vigilantism instead.

“Don’t let yourself get too discouraged, ‘Mione,” James tells her as they leave the interrogation chambers after their last interview of the day. “Dolohov isn’t perfect, and this crew he is gathering, even less so. Someone’ll slip. You should really try to keep yourself distracted for a few days so you don’t obsess. What are you doing tonight?”

Hermione raises an eyebrow at him. “Home, Ogdens, and case files,” she tells him, waving the stack of files she is carrying, and before she can stop him, James snatches the papers away.

“No, I don’t think so,” he tells her with a laugh. “You’re coming to Sirius’s for supper.” 

Hermione glares at this. “Harry has been bugging me about it all week. I don’t really feel like tagging along with Harry and Ginny, and Sirius and his flavour of the week,” she says, rolling her eyes at the thought. James laughs. 

“You won’t be - you’ll be tagging along with _me_ ,” he clarifies. “Sirius’s fine-whiskey collection is mystifying - you won’t have seen that, he hides it when he has guests - and I really don’t want to be playing fifth-wheel either.”

Hermione laughs. “ _Mystifying_? Really?” She pauses, giving him another look as they make their way to his office in the Aurory. “I don’t know, James. I’ve been to Weasley supper every Sunday for the last three weeks - that’s the most family dinners I’ve done in the last four years. I don’t know if I’m up for another -”

“First of all, yes, you have been seen out more in the last few weeks than usual - and it seems like it has been really good for you. Secondly, I would not class dinner at Sirius’s in the same range as Weasley Sunday dinner. Harry and Ginny are leaving the kids with Molly and Arthur for the night, and without the parental supervision of Molly, Sirius is liable to be sneakily refilling drinks and getting everyone as plastered as he can. I’ve already told you that you need a distraction this weekend - between tonight and the hangover tomorrow, you will be sufficiently distracted for most of the weekend.”

Hermione sighed, casting him one last look out of the corner of her eye. “ _Fine_ ,” she finally agreed, crossing arms. 

“Great. Since I really don’t trust you to show up on your own, I’ll pick you up in an hour,” James tells her, and Hermione frowns, slightly offended, but before she can even open her mouth, James is gone, disappearing into the twists and turns of the halls of the DMLE’s holding cells and interview rooms. It takes Hermione a moment to realise he has taken all of her notes and files with him, meaning she can’t take them home with her to go over later.

“Arsehole,” she mutters under her breath, but the tone holds no malice, and instead she heads towards her own office to retrieve her bag to leave for the day.

.oOo.

Supper is nice. Hermione is anxious about taking the night off, and James scolds her when he arrives to pick her up. 

“I understand, but I’m just saying that the universe isn’t going to implode because Hermione Granger took off one evening instead of working herself to death,” he tells her, and she sighs with resignment, loud enough that he can hear it down the stairs, as she struggles to get her hair into a poofy ponytail.

When they arrive at Grimmauld Place via floo, all the effort that Hermione has put into her hair is immediately wasted, the frizz settling back in from the journey, soot clinging to the ends of her hair. Sirius greets them with a tumbler of firewhisky and a wide grin, dragging them from the entry parlour to the drawing room he prefers to use for entertaining down the hall. Harry and Ginny haven’t arrived yet, and Hermione is surprised to find that Sirius seems to have been alone before their arrival.

“I thought we would be walking into a house of debauchery,” she confesses as she sips at her whisky, “You know what I mean - some young witch who has managed to keep your attention for five minutes.”

Sirius chuckles, pulling his pocket watch from his robes and glancing at the time. “Haven’t you heard? I’ve been turning over a new leaf,” he tells her, and wriggles his brow at her. “I - well, may or may not be seeing someone a bit… more seriously than the others.” 

“Oh!” Hermione is surprised by this news, and she sneaks a glance at James, and is even more surprised to see he appears as unaware as she is. “Are we going to meet her tonight?” she asks.

Sirius shakes his head. “No, no - uh, we are kind of… laying low at the moment,” he replies, and Hermione takes note of the way he seems relieved that the conversation is interrupted by the chiming of the wards announcing Harry and Ginny’s arrival. “I’ll go grab those two,” he says with a tip of his head, leaving James and Hermione alone once more.

“News to you as well, then?” she asks James, and he nods his response.

“It explains a few things though,” he admits with a small frown, and before Hermione can ask anything else, Sirius returns with the other two in tow, and James throws back what is left in his glass before turning to greet them.

Both Harry and Ginny seem slightly surprised, though happy, to see Hermione has joined them for the evening. 

“Well shit,” Harry says, running a hand through his hair before pulling his friend into a tight hug.

“You can thank James,” Hermione says, and it feels odd calling him by his name to Harry - she’s always called him ‘your father’ or ‘your dad’ to Harry. “He basically showed up at my house and dragged me here.”

James, in turn, winks at her as he gives Ginny a small hug, and Harry chuckles. “Well, I’m glad he did. It’s good, seeing you out, ‘Mione,” he says genuinely, his hands on her shoulders as he holds her at arm’s length. “It’s good to see you out of uniform.”

“It’s just good to _see_ you,” Ginny corrects, shoving her husband aside and throwing her arms around her sister-in-law, her best friend. “There’s far too many people around on Sundays to have a proper conversation,” she sighs. “How have you been? _Really_?”

Hermione bites back the sigh of relief that threatens to to come out when Kreacher _pops!_ into the room. 

“Dinner is ready, Master Sirius,” the old elf drones, and though he frowns - at Hermione in particular - he does not curse at anyone or comment on anyone’s blood status under his breath. 

Sirius chuckles as he thanks the elf, raising a brow slightly at Hermione as though to say, _‘See? I told you I would treat him better,’_ and proceeds to usher everyone down the hall to the dining room.

Supper is good, the conversation is light and Hermione finds herself laughing and smiling more in the few hours she is at Grimmauld Place than she has in the past four years. While Harry and Ginny don’t imbibe much in the alcohol Sirius keeps offering - Ginny because of Jamie and Harry because he was never really one for drinking in the first place - Sirius, James,and Hermione are each on their third by the time Harry and Ginny decide it is time for them to call it a night - no doubt to enjoy the rest of their child-free night alone - and Hermione is almost disappointed.

“Nightcap?” James asks as he helps her pull on her cloak by the fireplace, and she weighs the offer for a moment before agreeing. She is already feeling that edge begin to soften, but it’s not particularly late and is not particularly looking forward to returning to the loneliness of the townhouse.

“Three Broomsticks?” she asks.

“Mine?” he counters. “I’m just… not sure I want to be around more people,” he admits, and Hermione agrees, trying her best to hide the uncertainty in her voice. 

The truth is she hadn’t been to James’s flat since Harry and Ginny had moved in together. The last time she had seen the place she had been little more than a child, and there was something oddly intimate about being there alone with him now, as an adult. But by the time she has processed this thought, it’s a moment too late and James has already thrown the powder into the fireplace, the green flames flickering high.

When they arrive on the other side, Hermione is surprised by how different the flat is from how she remembers it. It is remarkably modern and clean, an entirely different place from when she was last there. The walls and decor are largely white, with a slate-grey sofa and armchair at the centre of the sitting room. The only touch of colour comes from a burgundy rug and set of matching throw pillows.

“Firewhisky?” James asks, stepping around her towards the drink cart that he has in front of the balcony window, and Hermione hums her agreement, slipping her cloak off again and placing it neatly on the arm of the chair. “You looked happy, tonight,” he tells her as he hands her a glass, and she gives him a small smile.

“I was,” she agrees. “I’m not sure that I have had a night like this since Ron died. It was… nice. But - there is a part of me that feels guilty. And there is another that seems to think that any moment the other shoe will drop.”

Her own confession surprises her. Not the content, but the ease in which she shares these feelings with James, and that makes her finish her drink in one large gulp.

“It’s okay to miss him,” James tells her as he lowers himself onto the sofa, “But you shouldn’t - and can’t - feel guilty about living life. That guilt is like a disease. It will eat you from the inside out, and that’s dangerous, ‘Mione. What I can tell you, though, is that Ron would _want_ you to be happy. This I _know_.”

She knows this, but no matter how many times she is reminded, _knowing_ something and _feeling_ something are two entirely different things.

“I never cried,” she says finally, making her way over to the drink cart and topping off her glass. “I think I took all that pain, and put it away. I replaced it with anger. And through the years I’ve found ways to keep all that pain at bay; numb it. But I don’t think I ever really _felt_ it.” She makes her way back to the sofa, tucking her feet under herself as she sits, but she comes down harder than she means to and grabs the back for support.

“Alcohol?” James asks with a small smirk, looking at her over his glass. 

“Among other things,” she says with a small smile.

“You’re going to be okay, you know,” he tells her, and she doesn’t reply, instead resting her head to the side against the sofa, looking at him.

“Do you think Sirius is… well, serious about this new one he’s been seeing?” she asks, changing the subject abruptly. James shrugs in response.

“Honestly? I don’t know for sure, but I’m leaning towards yes. It’s not like Sirius to keep someone a secret like that.” He frowns slightly, his thoughts elsewhere, and it takes Hermione back to earlier in the night. 

“What did you mean, earlier, when you said that it _explains a few things_?” she asks.

James gives her a sideways glance, hesitating for a moment. “Er - well, he’s been awfully sentimental, recently.”

Hermione chuckles at this. “You boys had a heart to heart, then?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

“Well, come on, then. Let’s have it. What did he say?”

James runs a hand through his hair - an action that makes her think of Harry - and sighs, adjusting himself slightly so he’s facing her slightly straighter. “He just - he’s being a fucking prick,” he says finally, and though Hermione is tempted to push the subject, she relents.

“I think I owe you some thanks, James,” she says finally, instead. When he gives her a questioning look, she shrugs. “It’s been four years, and I’ve barely spoken about it - about Ron. I didn’t have anyone to talk to that I thought would _really_ understand. Harry - Ron and him were best friends. Ginny was his sister. But losing the person you thought you were going to spend the rest of your life with is different than that, and it’s a loss you can’t sympathise with unless it’s something you have experienced. I guess I should thank Harry, too - I don’t think if he hadn't put you on the Dolohov case with me, that I would have felt comfortable enough to talk to you about it all. You told me a few days ago talking about Lily, with someone who had been through what you had was cathartic - and you were right. It has been.”

James reaches his free hand, the one closest to the inside of the couch, towards her, his fingers wrapping around her shoulder. It’s a comforting gesture, and Hermione can feel the heat radiating from him even through the heavy sleeves of her dress. 

“You have so many people that care for you, Hermione,” he tells her, “And every one of them wants to see you happy.”

They sit in silence again for a moment, each watching the other other closely, before Hermione sighs and looks down at what is left of her drink.

“I should really be getting home,” she tells him, and he nods in understanding. She moves to stand, and he follows, taking her glass and setting both down on the glass top coffee table.

She’s not quite sure what it is; if it is all the alcohol, or that she is just so used to finding a random hook-up when she has been drinking, or that she only meant to go in for a friendly and thankful hug, but the moment her lips touch his, she sinks into his arms.

There is a moment of shock from each of them, where they just stand there. Hermione’s hands are on James’s shoulders, her grip tight, and they are both unmoving. After a moment that feels like a century, she feels his hands come out on her waist, and he responds to her, deepening the kiss.

But as suddenly as it happened, it’s over, and Hermione throws herself back, gasping for air. Her skin is on fire, permeating from where James’s grip had been.

“Oh - oh fuck…” she gasps, her hands covering her mouth. “I’m so - I’m sorry, James. I don’t know what… why… Merlin, I need to go…” 

The fluster of words come out a thousand miles an hour, and though she can feel James reaching to take her by the wrist, she manages to slip his grip. She grabs her beaded bag, the one that is never out of her sight, and turns on the spot, disappearing with a _crack!_ before another word can be spoken by either of the two. 


	8. VIII

James doesn’t move as Hermione takes her leave. He can barely process the fluster of words, and even after she is gone - the scent of lavender and soot lingering in the air - he doesn’t move for a few moments, frozen.

When he finally does move, it is only to fall back into the couch; elbows on his knees, he leans into his hands, running his fingers through his hair.

The kiss had been unexpected, but what had surprised James more was his own reaction to it; how quickly he had reciprocated. In his mind, he curses at Sirius; clearly, his oldest friend’s statements the week before had gotten into his head.

Hermione, however, appeared to have gotten under his skin.

He moves his hands from his hair to his face, running his fingers over his jaw with a rough grip, growling his frustration. This was  _ his son’s best friend _ ; a young woman 19 bloody years his junior. Of course, there was also the fact that they were currently working together. Neither of them needed  _ this _ complicating their professional lives. And yet…

And yet, the moment their lips had touched it was like lightning had replaced the blood in his veins. He  _ had _ hesitated, but only because the burning in his veins refused to let him respond.

In truth, no one had coaxed such a reaction from him in…

Far too long. 

He looks over to where Hermione’s cloak lays forgotten, draped over the arm of the armchair neatly, and throws his head back as he falls back into the couch, groaning in frustration.

“What the  _ fuck _ !”

.oOo.

Hermione is still shaking when she arrives home, bursting through the fireplace so fast she almost trips over the rug in the drawing room. 

Why  _ the fuck _ had she done that? It is a question that still burns through her mind as she makes her way upstairs, into the bathroom, and turns on the shower. She needs to wash away the feeling that still lingers on her skin.

By the time she crawls under the flow of the water, she is shaking as one thought repeats in her mind;  _ he didn’t pull away, he didn’t pull away _ \- 

Which is exactly why she needed to. 

This was her  _ best friend’s father _ . It wasn’t the age gap itself that gave her pause; honestly, she could care less if it was one year, or four, or twenty. It was the fact that this was Harry’s father that made her neck burn. He had known her since she was eleven years old; he had watched her grow up, watched her friendship with Harry grow; her innocent, childhood friendship with Ron flourish into love. He had been around when she had been at her best, and her worst. When she and Ron had wed at the Burrow under a canopy charmed with twinkling lights, and when she had buried him, not a year later, in the same place with his brother. 

Suddenly, somehow, the list that Hermione has been compiling as she tries to wash away the aching in her bones becomes less about everything that is wrong with what she had done, and instead, about how maybe - just  _ maybe  _ \- it might be quite right.

.oOo.

Regardless, Hermione refuses to see anyone she knows for the rest of the weekend. In fact, she barely leaves her  _ room _ . She ignores the owls attempting to deliver to her; letters, notes, packages, or even the Daily Prophet; she lets them all pile up on the ledge outside her bedroom window. 

It’s embarrassment more than anything. She can’t imagine that James hasn’t said anything to  _ someone _ about what happened on Friday night, and imagining the knowing looking someone might give her makes her feel sick.

Monday finally rolls around, and she toys with the idea of owling in ill, but she can’t risk even a single day with Dolohov still on the loose, so she finally gets ready and arrives at the Ministry with minutes to spare; and instead of her usual jaunt past Harry’s office, she goes straight to the Hit Squad’s offices and straight to her own desk, without a word spoken to another person.

She is surprised when she settles behind her desk to find a stack of files; the same ones she had been trying to take home for the weekend on Friday. James has obviously back-tracked and left them for her after she had left that evening,

With the ongoing case and her temporary assignment with the Aurory, she was excused from morning training, which meant she would be alone in the office probably until eleven, for which she is thankful. She tries to distract herself by starting into the files from Friday, but her wandering thoughts have other plans.

By nine-thirty she still feels as though she has accomplished nothing.

When she hears a soft knock on her cubicle wall at nine-forty-five, she actually sighs in relief. Harry pokes his head around the barrier.

“I was expecting you to check in first thing this morning,” he tells her, and she can feel her cheeks already starting to burn.

“Uh- no, sorry. I forgot some files I meant to go through this weekend, so I wanted to do that first,” she tells him, avoiding meeting his eyes.

“I owled you like, four times on Saturday and Sunday,” he tells her.

“Yeah, I just - needed a weekend to myself.”

“Everyone missed you on Sunday,” he pushes. And when she doesn’t respond, “Are you okay, Hermione? You seemed like you were doing really good on Friday, and then -”

“Harry, bloody hell I’m  _ fine _ ,” she finally snaps, her narrow eyes looking up to meet his. “I had a great time on Friday, but I just needed to be alone for a few days. Why is that so hard -”

“I get it, fine, geeze, ‘Mione,” Harry cuts her off, holding his hands up in retreat. Immediately Hermione regrets her tone, and sighs.

“I’m sorry, Harry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. It’s just - oh  _ fuck _ .” she laments, burying her face into her hands. Muffled, she continues: “ _ Something _ happened this weekend. Something really quite embarrassing, and you know you’re my best friend, but I really,  _ really _ don’t think I can talk to you about this,” she admits. Which is entirely true. It would be cruel and unusual punishment to have to tell the man she  _ kissed his father _ . No. She is  _ definitely  _ not going there today. “I don’t know if I can talk to you about this  _ ever _ ,” she mumbles into her hands.

Harry frowns, but doesn’t respond for a moment before dropping his tone very low and asking, all while looking slightly horrified, “Hermione, did Sirius come onto you?”

Hermione looks up, staring at her friend for a very long moment, brow furrowed, before a small giggle bubbles up her throat. The next thing she knows, she is laughing hysterically, (if not slightly maniacally,) holding her stomach with one hand while wiping tears from her eyes with the other.

“Did - did - did S-s-sirius come on-on to me?” she asks, and she realises the hysterics is most likely because her friend doesn’t realise how close to home the question is. Well, other than it was her doing the coming-onto and it being the wrong much-older adult. “That’s ridiculous, Harry,” she says, more to comfort him than to speak the truth.

“Is it?” he asks, the terror that had been written across his face slowly giving away to a small bit of amusement, “I really can’t tell with that one what’s ridiculous and what isn’t.”

“Oh, trust me,” she assures him, “With Sirius Black it’s all ridiculous, but it's all also very real.”

“So you didn’t like… make out with my godfather?” he asks again, and Hermione shakes her head. “Oh thank  _ merlin _ ,” he exclaims, shoulders sagging in relief, and Hermione is biting her cheek so hard she swears she can taste the coppery tinge of blood on her tongue.

Hermione nearly collapses into her chair 20 minutes later when Harry finally leaves. She doesn’t get to relax long, however, as the rest of the Hit Squad starts trickling in from their morning training session.

Not particularly wanting to talk to anyone else at the moment, she gathers her papers and starts heading towards the interview rooms, hoping to find a quiet room not in use she can use instead.

.oOo.

James arrives at work at precisely the time he is meant to, as per his usual schedule. He had forgone his usual morning visit to the cafe around the corner from his flat, opting instead for precious extra moments in bed - not that they were spent properly resting, so much as staring at the ceiling - and relied instead on the instant coffee that he kept for emergencies in the cupboard.

When he finally arrived at the Aurory, he immediately retreated to his own office, door mostly shut - open just enough so he could see the traffic in and out of Harry’s across from him.

But Hermione never came to see his son.

It was unusual. Most days one of the first things Hermione did when arriving at work was slink into Harry’s office. Then again, she had also always been painstakingly prompt with replies to owls and correspondence, and yet James himself had written to her no less than  _ six _ times since Friday, and had not received even a peep out of the witch.

James tries to plug away in his office for the morning, but then not long after nine-thirty, he hears the door to Harry’s office open, and watches his son head off in the direction of the Hit Squad’s offices. He tries to distract himself, sitting at his desk pouring over paperwork, lazily twirling his wand between his fingers, but his mind isn’t where it needs to be.

He decides instead to review the interview transcripts from the week before.

He is grateful for this decision the moment he opens the door to Interview Room 4 and finds a young, bushy haired witch sitting at the table, files poured over the table in front of her.

When he had originally owled her the multiple times he had over the weekend, it was in the hopes he could assuage her embarrassment about what had happened on Friday.  _ ‘We all had quite a bit to drink,’ _ he planned on telling her,  _ ‘It’s really nothing to worry about.’  _ he meant to assure her.

But the moment his eyes fell on her in person instead of in his head or on paper, that all went out the window. 

“Oh! - Hermione,” he starts, startled by her, and when she looks up at him like a deer in the headlights of a muggle motor vehicle, everything he  _ means _ to say is promptly gone from his mind.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” he hears her mutter. 

“I owled you,” he starts again, taking a step towards her, “Should we - ?”

“Talk?” she finishes. “Probably. But I am thoroughly mortified.”

“Don’t be,” he says, and it feels more like pleading than what he had intended.

“Can we just - pretend that never happened?” she asks, “I - I like talking to you, James. Being around you has helped me more than anything else in the last four years, and I don’t want to ruin it just because I can’t keep in my knickers when I drink.”

For some reason, her words are cutting, but he nods regardless. “Of course,” he replies quietly, trying his best to quell the disappointment burning at the back of his neck. Slowly, he moves so he is sitting across from her. “What are we working on, then?”

Hermione turns her attention back down to the piles of papers in front of her. “Land deeds,” she explains, pulling a few loose sheets from the mess. “These are the deeds for all the land that came together to form the Lestrange Estate,” she explains. “The purchases, anyway, and  _ these _ are the deeds for when the titles were reverted to the Ministry’s restitution fund after the war,” she explains, and begins matching them up. “I noticed a couple days ago that the number of land titles in the Lestrange name did  _ not _ match the number of titles transferred to the Ministry. It took some time to collect up all of the original records, but this little parcel of land of the estate was never transferred over.”

In a sweeping motion, she clears the papers to the side to reveal a map on the table. She reaches into her pocket, pulling out a small crystal pendulum. She holds it low over the map, twirling it just enough to start a wide circle.

“The whole of the estate was warded with blood magic,” she explains, “So when the titles were transferred to the Ministry, the wards were broken.” With a snap, the pendulum meets the paper, as though there is a magnet pulling the two together. Hermione marks where the pendulum has fallen with her quill, and then checks the coordinates against the titles. “See? They didn’t use traditional unplottable wards - most of these families relied heavily on blood magic. Otherwise even with the transfer of the land, the estate would remain unplottable. However -”

She begins circling the pendulum over the map again, and this time it reacts like the magnet has been reversed. The pendulum is jerking over the map, refusing to meet the paper.

“Wherever this bit of land is, remains unplottable. I’m not sure if the blood wards are still intact, or if they didn’t use blood magic to ward it to ensure it would remain hidden.”

James frowns. “Where does the original land title say it is?” he asks, and Hermione grins.

“It doesn’t. There is absolutely no location information whatsoever for this piece of property. All I can find for a description of the property is that there is a hunting cottage of some sort there. I think this is the best place to start looking.”

James agrees, taking the land title from her. “Okay, so. How do we go about finding an unplottable, unlocatable, hidden hunting cottage?” he asks aloud.

“Well, it won’t be the quickest process,” she admits. “My suggestion is we take a small team, including a curse-breaker, and survey the property line of the estate. Look for  _ any _ anomaly, no matter how small. Finding it will be the hard part. Once we have done that, it will just be a matter of testing how comprehensive the wards are, and dismantling them.” She looks up at him. “Hopefully,” she clarifies, with a small shrug. 

“How sure are you there is anything worthwhile to pursue here?” James asks. 

“I’m not saying there is,” she admits. “But we have to start somewhere, and this is at least something.”

James has to agree this is the closest thing they have had to a lead since the attack on the Ministry, so he nods. “Let’s take this to Harry and Brockert,” he says. Then, as she is packing all of her papers up, he asks, “Do you have a curse-breaker in mind?”

Hermione thinks for a moment. “There are a few adequate curse-breakers in the Department of Mysteries, but if the choice was mine I would take Bill Weasley on loan from Gringotts,” she tells him. “It may be nepotism and bias seeing as he’s my brother-in-law, but I trust him with my life.

“Good enough for me.”

As they start to make their way back towards the Aurory, James ponders over their earlier conversation. He realises that he let Hermione have her say, but he didn’t particularly get to express anything  _ he _ had wanted to, so he starts to say; “Listen, Hermione - I know you said you want to preten-”

But his words were cut off when she exclaimed, “Harry! Just the wizard we were looking for!” in a voice far too chipper to  _ actually _ be happy to see him. He gave his son a quick glance out of the corner of his eye, trying his best to mask his disappointment in his appearance at that exact moment, even though he knows he was probably failing miserably at it.

He allows Hermione to carry on, her words a mile a minute.

“I’ll see if Gringotts will loan Bill to us,” he agrees finally, “And so long as they agree, you can start the search tomorrow. I’d like you to get together a list of three teams, each with two Aurors and one Hit Wizard, to assist.” 

Both James and Hermione nod their understanding, and with that Harry is off again.

Hermione starts to walk away, but James reaches out, catching her wrist in his hand. “Hermione -” he starts, but she quickly cuts him off again.

“Please, James,” she pleads, but she doesn’t pull away from him, “I can’t do this. Not here. Not now.” 

He wants to argue, but her skin feels like fire under his, and he can hear muffled footsteps coming their way, and he doesn’t want their conversation to be interrupted; so he relents, letting her slip through his fingers.

“You pick the aurors,” she says, her voice almost a whisper, “And I’ll pick the Hit Wizards.” 

With a turn and twirl of her robes that is so flawless it might as well have been a purposeful flourish, Hermione turns on her heel and is gone.

.oOo.

It is raining outside, and the droplets that hit the glass of the window are large. Antonin Dolohov watches as water runs down the window pane, creating rivets of rivers, mostly ignoring the blathering going on between the Lestrange brothers and the raw screech of Alecto Carrow. 

The Lestranges are mad; unlike the Blacks, it is not the result of inbreeding or genetics. Dolohov’s opinion is that it was a combination of the exposure to Bellatrix (he cringes at the thought of not just one of them, but both of them being utterly infatuated with the woman, and whatever messy triad they had carried on while she was alive) and, of course, their many years in Azkaban. Alecto, on the other hand, is simply an annoyance.

But all three of them are needed now for him to accomplish his goals.

It is a miracle he escaped Azkaban himself with his mind intact; of this he is very aware. During his years imprisoned, he had felt the darkness of madness creeping in through the edges, but he had always held tightly to one simple thought, one simple feeling; it was not a happy one, per se, but it was a truth he knew deep inside.

It was not fanatical worship of a man - because yes, Tom Riddle had only been a man - with a made up name, a pretty (or, later, terrifying) face, whose less than desirable paternity sparked an inferiority complex so profound that it created one of the most feared dark wizards in centuries.

No. It was the knowledge that regardless of the face of their cause, or the damage the face itself may cause, the  _ cause _ itself was right.

_ He _ was right.

And he had clung to the thought like the lifeline it was.

_ Now _ , however, there was a problem with that thought…

“I can’t wait to get my wand on Potter’s little Mudblood and -” he hears Rabastan hiss behind him, and before the man can finish the sentence, Dolohov is on him, his wand to Rabastan’s throat and his fingers curled into the other wizard’s collar.

“The Mudblood is  _ mine _ ,” he snaps, his voice low and dangerous, though he purposely speaks loud enough for the others to hear the claim he stakes. “She will be apprehended,  _ unharmed _ , for  _ me _ .”

Rabastan squeaks, involuntarily, under the pressure of the wood at throat, nodding his agreement. He sputters as Dolohov releases him roughly, grasping the mantle of the fireplace for balance, and Dolohov turns to the other two with narrow eyes, pointing his wand between them.

“Is that understood?” 

They both nod; Alecto, trying to keep her composure, and Rodolphus slightly more frantic as he rushes to his brother.

“Now get the  _ fuck _ out of here.”

Yes. Potter’s little Mudblood - the chit who has brought his life’s beliefs into question. The bitch responsible for so many of his friend’s imprisonments, for defeating so many that had fought for  _ his _ cause. It was hard to continue to claim their superiority all the while someone who by all means should have no access to magic whatsoever managed to best them at every turn.

She was a puzzle he  _ would _ solve; he would take her apart, piece by piece, put her back together, and do it all again until he understood. 

This obsession had started years before; the first time he found herself face to face with her, he had not hesitated. His signature curse, one of his own making, had left none alive before; it would burn them up from the inside out; painful, excruciatingly painful; it was not a quick or kind way to go.

And yet she had lived.

The news had startled him; flabbergasted him even. He chalked it up to having had cast the curse non-verbally. Perhaps without the verbal command it had lost some of his power. Yet, since, he had been sure to try this on others, to test the efficacy of curse non-verbally on others.

Still, no other had survived.

Through the years, he had allowed their lives to become more and more intertwined in his search to understand. He took from her what he could; her parents (who, though even he had to admit, were notably brave in the face of their own demise, were also not nearly as interesting or as durable as their daughter), and her husband a few years later. With the Weasley boy, though he did not nearly put up enough of a fight as one would expect from an Auror, at least he was in a position to see how loss affected her; how it tore through her and pulled her apart. Their own fight that night he got to see the way she channeled that pain into raw power; he may have had the leg up on her in the beginning, but quickly, far  _ too _ quickly, she had gotten the edge on him.

He touches the angry scar marring his face; the wound was deep, the scar itself angry and puckered as it runs down from over his brow, skipping his eye and continuing over the curve of his cheek.

He had never seen a slicing hex cause quite so much damage. It had been deeply fascinating.

Though he had been disappointed with just how quickly she had managed to find his breadcrumb trail through Europe. He had so much more planned; so many more pieces for her to plant, but he had instead been forced to rush things. His aunt, the terrible wench of a woman, he had not necessarily  _ meant _ to involve, but it was not a big loss, and he had needed for the Russian Auror’s niece to be found. 

He needed her to see, to understand,  _ why _ she was so fascinating.

He needed everyone around her to understand that none of them, but  _ her _ , most importantly, were not safe.

He was going to figure her out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. A bit of a peek into Dolohov's dark mind. Thanks as always for reading!  
> -Nyx


End file.
